


The Twelve Days of Les Amis-mas

by PieceOfCait



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Baker!Grantaire, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Don't Post To Another Site, Flirting, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, Mistletoe, Modern AU, Oh Santa, Pining, angst-free zone, enjoltaire - Freeform, they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait
Summary: "The holiday party? Here?" Enjolras nods towards their neatly-cluttered-but-decided-non-festive living room. "On all none of a budget?"Grantaire shrugs, "I fancied a challenge."aka: the horribly domestic They-Were-Roommates Christmas rom-com you didn't know you needed.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 214
Kudos: 398





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be posted in real-time, so expect daily updates at around 9pm (GMT+8) from December 13 to 25, and stay tuned on my [tumblr](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com) for an added Christmas surprise (or two!)
> 
> Dear [Shitpostingfromthebarricade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade)  
\- I know you beta-d the everloving heck out of this, but I'm gonna dedicate it to you anyway. You're a literal Christmas angel and I'd never get a thing written without you <3
> 
> CW for occasional alcohol consumption and a teensy bit of swears.

“I never thought I’d say this,” calls Enjolras, shrugging off his jacket to hang on the stand, “but you may have overcommitted yourself.”

An indignant snort sounds from the kitchen, and Grantaire’s head appears at the end of the hallway. “And I never thought I’d see you with so little faith.” Enjolras ignores the dramatic chest-clutch as he passes the man in the doorway, and his roommate retreats to his usual seat atop the counter by the stove. “It wounds me that you doubt me so.”

Pausing mid-raid of the cookie jar, Enjolras turns his head to raise a pointed eyebrow at the man. “The holiday party? Here?” He nods towards their neatly-cluttered-and-decidedly-non-festive living room. “On all none of a budget?”

“I fancied a challenge.” Grantaire makes grabby hands, and Enjolras digs out one of the gingernut cookies that he knows are a favourite, tossing it over.

“You _are_ a challenge.” Taking a bite of his own biscuit - a lemon shortbread that hadn’t been there that morning - Enjolras hums as he hops up to sit beside his flatmate.

They’ve been living together for close to six months now, and what had started as a sure-to-be-doomed shared lease of convenience has turned out better than anyone could have anticipated. 

Enjolras sighs, staring out over the view of the city and recalling just how desperate he’d been to live here. Desperate enough to beg Grantaire of _all_ people to split the rent.

He’s pulled from his reverie by a sudden thought, blinking away from the window as he turns to the man beside him. “We don’t even have a tree.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Apollo,” is what he’s pretty sure he hears through a mouthful of gingernut. Grantaire swallows before continuing. “I’ve got plans.”

“What you’ve got is less than two weeks,” Enjolras points out, bumping his knee against the other man’s.

“Pish posh, time isn’t real.” The brunet’s grin turns teasing. “How is Ferre, anyway? Much change in the hour since I saw him? Did you two happen to coordinate highlighter colours again?”

“Rude.” Pushing himself off the bench, Enjolras stretches with a yawn. “You know I need my post-meeting debrief with the Ferre-Bear.”

“Oh my God,” whispers Grantaire, looking like Christmas has come two weeks early, “Is that- Does he know you call him that? Is it like a _legit_ nickname?”

It’s rare that Enjolras can take the upper hand with such little effort and he elects to quit while he’s ahead. Throwing a goodnight over his shoulder, he makes for the question-free safety of his room, Grantaire’s laughter trailing him from the kitchen.


	2. Day 1

_It’s the most wonderful time of the year,_ Enjolras tells himself as the overcrowded train jostles away from the station and the corner of a Lego Death Star box lodges firmly between his ribs. He’s sure the owner of the box would apologise were she not otherwise occupied with loudly discussing the sum total of her Christmas purchases with whomever is on the other end of her phone.

He wants to say something. _‘Excuse me, do you mind repositioning your bag?’_ maybe, or _‘Is this really the place for speaker phone?’_ but he’s already in a sour mood over having been called into work last minute on a Saturday, and he doesn’t trust himself to be kind.

Halfway through counting backwards from ten his phone buzzes against his thigh. With some difficulty (and an unsubtly angled elbow targeting a specific spacecraft) he manages to retrieve it, finding a text from Grantaire.

**R [17:12]** _tell me you haven’t ordered dinner yet_

Guilt twinges in the space beneath Enjolras’s lungs. His muddled schedule had him totally forgetting it’s his night to sort food, and the thought of even opening a delivery app feels like a gargantuan task after the day he’s had.

**E [17:15]** _Tell me my memory lapse is a good thing._

The reply is almost instant. 

**R [17:15]** _it is_  
**R [17:15]** _where are you_

Enjolras has a personal policy of ‘Honesty Almost Always,’ but he pauses a moment to consider his phrasing. It’s been a long and tedious last couple of hours, and he’s sick of being serious. If he can make Grantaire laugh, _something_ in his day will finally feel like it’s gone right. He _likes_ joking around with the man: it hasn’t always come easily to them, but six months of cohabitation has lent itself to a fusing of humours.

**E [17:17]** _Under siege by the Death Star._

**R [17:17] **

**E [17:18]** _I sincerely wish I was lying._  
**E [17:18]** _Related - new petition I’m starting: ‘Make Lego Box Corners 50% Rounder.’_

**R [17:18]** _tackling the Real IssuesTM_

**E [17:19]** _Change starts with us, Comrade._

**R [17:19]** _omfg_

**E [17:19]** _But to answer your question, I’m on the train home._

Thumb hovering over the screen, Enjolras hesitates. Talking emotions with Grantaire is still fairly unchartered territory, but he’d rather risk a blush on the train than a blow up in their flat. He knows how his bad moods can go.

**E [17:21]** _Work called me in and I’m still kind of peeved about it. So like, heads up._

He hits send and locks the screen, feeling instantly better for it. They’re friends, Grantaire isn’t going to make fun of him for a bad day. Even at the rockiest stages of their acquaintanceship, Grantaire would never have done that. 

His phone lights up.

**R [17:23]** _noted_  
**R [17:23]** _i’ll drop my charming antagonisation to 30% then_

That earns an audible snort from Enjolras, causing Death Star to pause midway through her _second_ phone call of the journey to sneer at him. Ducking his head, Enjolras returns to the ridiculous message on his phone. Disruptive as Grantaire may have been in the past, he hasn’t been outright _antagonistic_ in months.

**E [17:24]** _Your sacrifice is noted._

No response comes, so Enjolras repockets his phone. Death Star departs at the next station, and despite the absolute boomer who takes her place, Enjolras catches himself grinning in the window’s reflection as the train heads underground.

* * *

The apartment is dim when Enjolras finally makes it home, kicking off snow-damp boots to dry in the corridor. It’s dim but not dark, a soft golden glow pulsing at the end of the hall. Completely forgetting the hot cocoa he’s been looking forward to for the past hour, he moves like a moth to the hopefully metaphorical flame. 

“Taire? What’s-” Stopping short as he reaches the source, Enjolras feels his eyes go wide. There must easily be fifty metres of Christmas lights strung around the living room walls.

The door nearest him opens to reveal an aloof Grantaire. “Hey, what’s up?” 

Enjolras blinks. “How… how did you-?”

“Oh.” The syllable is drawn out in a mockery of surprise. _“That._ I saw Jehan today. Thought it’d be nice, you know. For the party. This hardly makes a dent in their light supply.”

Nodding, Enjolras can’t stop his eyes from flitting over the fading lights. The yellow tint reminds him of sunshine, and he feels warm for the first time in weeks.

Grantaire clears his throat. “Is it… okay? I can take them down if-”

“Don’t.” Enjolras tears his focus from the walls to look at his roommate. In the soft glow of the room the man’s features seem impossibly gentle. “They’re nice.”

“Cool.” Face literally and figuratively lighting up, Grantaire moves towards the kitchen. “Wanna spike some eggnog and watch Return of the Jedi? There’s a scene I think you’ll find particularly enjoyable.”

Shrugging out of his coat, Enjolras sits it on the counter and fetches two mugs. “Is that the one where they blow up-.”

“Ah! Ah!” Grantaire teases, brandishing a ladle and a smirk. “Spoilers!”


	3. Day 2

Every Sunday since halfway through their first year of university, Enjolras has had a standing boardgame date with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac had started it, an insistence on doing something utterly un-academic during their first semester exams before his brain imploded. The ruthless game of Risk that followed quickly became a treasured tradition. 

Arriving back to his apartment, Enjolras isn’t surprised to find it smelling strongly of pumpkin soup. He does, however, give pause to the jazzy rendition of _‘Here Comes Santa Clause’_ filtering down the hall.

Following the tune, he finds Grantaire’s ancient boombox perched precariously on a stool by the sink, the man himself carefully bopping as he takes a fresh loaf of bread from the oven. 

(And honestly, whatever past concerns he may have had regarding living in such close quarters with Grantaire, moving in with a baker has been the best decision he’s ever made.)

“Festive,” Enjolras remarks once the hot tray has been safely set down.

If Grantaire is surprised by the additional person in his kitchen he doesn’t show it, spinning with a grin and a shimmy. “It’s Chetta’s.”

Enjolras picks up the battered CD case from next to the stereo to read the handwritten cover: _‘A MIxtape of Holiday Bangers - May your Christmas be Jolllly and your New Year be Boss, love Boss and Joly 2014.’_

The song ends, a slight whir of outdated technology filling the silence for a moment before the next song begins. A vaguely familiar melody has Grantaire dropping the soup ladle to the bench and shooting Enjolras a grin that spells pure mischief.

“What-?”

_“I really can’t stay…”_ Grantaire sings in time with the woman on the recording.

Huffing a laugh, Enjolras is decidedly out of sync with his spoken reply. “It’s cold outside.”

With a tricky bit of footwork that Enjolras could never hope to match, Grantaire moves a step closer. _“I’ve got to go away…”_

_“But baby it’s cold outside.”_ This time he’s in-time, though very off-key. It’s worth the small flurry of embarrassment for the way the brunet beams at him. This sort of joking around has steadily become a usual thing for them, and it rates up there with frequent freshly baked bread as one of the Unexpected Delights of Living With Grantaire.

_“This evening has been…”_ Another bit of fancy footwork has brought them to within arms reach of one another.

“Uh,” Enjolras falters.

_“So very nice.”_

_“I…_ don’t know the rest of the song?”

Without missing a beat, Grantaire takes Enjolras’s hand. “Guess you’ll have to dance instead.” He spins them away from the boombox and simmering soup into an easy enough box step. 

Enjolras vaguely recalls his mother trying to teach him a similar dance when he’d been younger and thoroughly uninterested. Grasping it much more quickly now, he might even have a chance at getting through an entire rotation if _somebody_ would stop spinning him out and back every time he gets close. He finds he doesn’t mind, though, not when Grantaire is counting the beats for him under his breath and adding in effortless little sidesteps each opportunity he gets, the showy bastard.

The last bars of melody fade out, and while it hasn’t been a particularly demanding dance Enjolras is suddenly aware of his quickened pulse. He lifts his focus from their shoes to Grantaire’s face - pink with exertion - and struggles to recall whether the man’s eyes have always been this blue. There’s a smudge of flour on his cheekbone, and Enjolras hesitates a moment at the urge to brush it away. Just as he commits to the action, the dulcet tones of Mariah Carey’s voice kick in and Grantaire drops his hand, stepping back with a hum and a smile before beelining back to the stove.

“Hope you’re hungry.” Grantaire checks the soup before fetching two bowls from the overhead cupboard. “Pumpkin seed loaf and pumpkin soup, you know what that means.”

“Pumpkinception?” guesses Enjolras, fairly secure in his assumption as he collects the butter from the fridge. 

Looking back up, he finds Grantaire one-handedly finger-gunning him with an exaggerated wink. The flour is still on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By 'pumpkinception' do I mean those dweebs are going to eat their pumpkin-soup-covered-pumpkin-seed-bread while watching Inception because they're ridiculous? Yes.  
Is this, perchance, a semi-common occurrence in their flat? Also yes.


	4. Day 3

Three days after volunteering to host the holiday party, Enjolras is forming a hunch about how Grantaire intends to pull it off. When he gets home that evening, he begins searching the apartment for what might have been acquired today.

He finds Grantaire hunched over his drawing tablet on the couch, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. 

“Hey.” 

The brunet’s head shoots up, removing his square frames to rub at his eyes as he responds. “Hey. I didn’t hear you come in.” He puts his tablet down and stretches, spine popping audibly across the distance between them.

Attempting a subtle sweep of the room, Enjolras aims for casual with his question. “You go anywhere today?” 

The quick grin he receives in response tells him he’s more obvious that he’d hoped. “Indeed I did.” 

“Visit anyone in particular?”

“You’ll know when you find it,” his flatmate winks, getting up from the couch and taking three empty mugs from the coffee table to the sink.

Dropping the charade, Enjolras begins searching in earnest. The bathroom turns up nothing, as does a quick scan of his bedroom.

“Warmer,” murmurs Grantaire as Enjolras enters the kitchen.

“Hm?”

“Warmer.” Drying his hands on the tea towel, Grantaire leans back against the sink with a challenging grin. “You’re getting closer.”

Emboldened, Enjolras reaches for the nearest cupboard.

“Colder.”

With a pout, he moves to the fridge.

“Oof, freezing.”

Hesitantly, he crosses the kitchen, staring Grantaire down with every step.

“Warmer.”

He takes a step towards the living room.

“Ice, ice, baby.”

As he backtracks to head for the entryway, Grantaire moves with him.

“Warmer.”

“This is a ridiculous game,” huffs Enjolras, but he’s losing the fight against his grin as his eyes scan the stack of shoes by the door.

“And yet, you’re playing,” Grantaire laughs. “Hot, by the way. Very hot.”

Spinning on the spot, Enjolras’s eyes work their way up from the shoes to the coat rack, up the doorframe and eventually to the ceiling. He freezes. “Is that..?”

“Yeah." They’re standing much closer when Enjolras finally looks down, Grantaire’s eyes alight with mischief. “Mistletoe.”

Enjolras lets his face be tilted to the side as Grantaire presses a quick kiss to his cheek. An unexpected breathless giggle bubbles up from his chest as the brunet pulls away. “Courf then?”

There’s an unfamiliar quirk in Grantaire’s brow as he drops his fingers from Enjolras’s chin. “Who else?” Turning on his heel, the brunet heads back down the hallway, Enjolras following a half-beat later. “Heard you lost pretty spectacularly yesterday.”

It takes Enjolras’s brain a moment to catch up, still snagged on the cheek kiss they’re apparently not talking about. “I always lose when we play Monopoly,” he admits, taking the side of the couch Grantaire hasn’t sunk back into. “I seem to spend the whole time in jail.”

“Shocked.” The brunet’s deadpan is ruined by a snort.

Falling quickly into familiar banter, Enjolras relaxes. After a few minutes he feels daft for having tripped over it in the first place. After all, what’s a kiss on the cheek between friends?


	5. Day 4

The universe takes pity on Enjolras's Tuesday: his work giving him the morning off to make up for Saturday’s disaster.

Rolling out of bed sometime after 11am and shuffling towards the kitchen, Enjolras fixes himself a coffee and sinks into his preferred side of the couch. He flips through a few of his favoured news apps for a solid fifteen minutes before his ears perk up at the sound of familiar footsteps in the hallway.

A key sounds in the lock, door creaking as it opens, and the serenity of the morning is shattered as a sudden cacophony of crashing erupts from the entryway.

“Goddammit Dasher,” comes Grantaire’s voice after a beat of silence. “We were _so_ close.”

Swigging the remnants of his coffee Enjolras moves to investigate, freezing at the sight of his flatmate wrestling with boot laces and surrounded by several foot-tall glittery reindeer statues.

Swallowing his half-mouthful, Enjolras’s eyes flick to where the mistletoe no longer hangs. “I have so many questions.”

With an almost comical jolt, Grantaire’s head swivels to look at him, face pink from the cold. “Oh. Hi.” His beanie is yanked off as he shakes his hair out. “You’re home early.”

Trying to avoid getting glitter on his socks, Enjolras carefully edges closer. “I haven’t left.’’

Grantaire’s fingers freeze midway through tackling his buttons. “For real? Is it happening? Are you actually taking a sick day? Are you _dying?”_

“‘Mandatory Fatigue Break,’” Enjolras quotes dryly.

It earns him a bark of laughter as the brunet shrugs out of his jacket. “There’s the Enj I know.” He pushes a few of the fallen deer aside with his foot to reach the coat rack. “Got a countdown on for when you can head back in?”

Not that Enjolras will admit to it, but yes. “I might check my emails after lunch.”

“Shine on, you crazy diamond,” Grantaire chuckles as he crouches down, gathering the statues nearest him. “Help me herd these guys into my room?”

Accepting his glittery fate, Enjolras begins collecting the stragglers that had scattered further afield. “So uh, where’d you find these?”

“Caught up with Bahorel after my shift.”

Further elaboration is awaited in vain.

“I’ve learned that when it comes to Baz, it’s safest not to ask,” Grantaire adds upon catching Enjolras’s expression. The man stands, graceful despite the precariously balanced half-dozen reindeer in his arms. He maneuvers around Enjolras’s own leaning tower of glitter before leading the way down the hall and through the second door on the left.

It’s far from the first time Enjolras has ventured into Grantaire’s bedroom, but he still catches himself marvelling at the decor. 

The first thing Grantaire had done after they’d moved in was cover an entire wall with the flattened cardboard of their packing boxes. It had taken him the better part of that first weekend, and Enjolras can’t help but be drawn to it every time he enters the man’s room. Layered with paint and pen and printed articles, there’s hardly a section left unmarked.

Enjolras seeks out his favourite parts - doodled drafts of rally signs, illustrations pulled from Jehan’s poems, a growing collection of hand studies, and the explosion of sunflowers that have since wrapped their way around Grantaire’s ribs. 

“That’s new,” he notes. The brunet looks up from maneuvering deer under his small desk to see where Enjolras is nodding at a decidedly festive piece that must have sprung up in the last week or two, Burton-esque designs sprawling out in green, red, and white. 

Getting to his feet, Grantaire dusts his sparkly hands on his jeans. “Tis the season.”

They trade places, Enjolras moving to add his three deer to the collection as Grantaire trails a finger along the edge of a cartoon pine. Enjolras had never taken the man to be a champion of holiday cheer, but he’s starting to realise that, despite half a year of living together, there’s probably a lot that he still doesn’t know about his flatmate.

“You know,” Enjolras starts as he rejoins Grantaire at the cardboard wall. A doodled reindeer has found its way onto the festive expanse in the short time that he was otherwise occupied. “I may have been wrong in doubting your ability to pull this party together.” 

The statement is met with a noncommittal hum, and Enjolras makes to leave.

“Hey, Enj?”

Pausing in the doorway, Enjolras tries to decipher the glint in Grantaire’s eye. An exaggerated glance upwards gives him his answer: taped to the wall above the doorway is-

“Mistletoe.” 

Before Enjolras can fully register his location beneath the sprig, the brunet has kissed his cheek and left the room. 

"So." The man is pulling a baguette from his backpack when Enjolras finds him in the kitchen several short moments later. “You got any plans for lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well, if it isn't the last chapter with a word count of <1k.


	6. Day 5

Despite the few hours spent addressing emails the prior afternoon, Enjolras’s flagged-for-follow up list is still in the double digits. On returning home he changes into his cosiest pyjamas, brews a decadent cup of cocoa, and sinks into the couch to tackle the small mountain of urgent matters.

His final reply is sent just as keys sound in the lock. A husky chorus of _Frosty The Snowman_ drifts down the hall, and Enjolras smiles. Grantaire hasn’t stopped singing carols since the mixtape had come home, and Enjolras is coming to discover that he rather likes the man’s voice.

It isn’t until sock-softened footsteps enter the room that Enjolras recalls the content of his last email and impulsively slams his laptop shut.

“Hey, you know the rules!” Freezing mid-step, Grantaire points an accusing finger. “No politics or porn in shared areas!”

Enjolras snorts, because that is indeed the third item on the list of house rules they’d written, signed, and stuck on the fridge two days after moving in. “A calumnious accusation-“ 

“Bold words from the guy literally hugging his laptop shut.” Grin shifting into a smirk, Grantaire drops his backpack to the table and begins rifling through it. “It’s Christmas, so I’m gonna let this one slide-“

Feeling a traitorous blush rising to his cheeks, Enjolras splutters. “I wasn’t _wanking_ on the couch!”

“God, you break so easy,” the man teases. “I forget you’re an only child.”

“Between you, Courf, and Feuilly, I’ve heard enough about siblings to remain utterly thankful for my lack.”

“They’re not so bad,” Grantaire smiles. It’s small, but it softens his whole face.

“How is Amelie anyway?” Enjolras deflects, putting down his computer in hopes of diverting attention from it. “She got much planned for Christmas? ” 

“God, I don’t even know. Probably trying to avoid sunburns and sharks at the beach. She’s good though, and I bet the boys have plenty of plans for when holidays start.”

“You talk to them lately?”

“Not really. We message, but the time zones are shite for calling. _Anyway,”_ a flourish of green fabric is pulled from the depths of the man’s bag, “what d’you reckon?” 

Cocking his head to the side, Enjolras squints. “It’s…”

“An elf costume!” beams Grantaire, shimmying his shoulders and making the attached pants of the outfit flail wildly.

“R,” a laugh fails to to be suppressed, “it’s a Legolas costume.”

Freezing mid-shimmy, Grantaire shoots him a look of utter disdain. “Yes, and – say it with me – Legolas is…”

“A… Sindarin Elf of the Woodland Realm.” He probably deserves the exaggerated eye roll it earns him.

“Ugh, fine, you big nerd,” huffs Grantaire, diving back into his bag to retrieve a red Santa hat and pulling it over his curls. “There. Happy now?”

_“’Forgive me, I was wrong to despair.’”_ Deadpanning the ridiculous man takes some effort, but it’s worth it. Enjolras catches the hat as it’s flung at him, tugging it on with a smug grin.

The softened edge of Grantaire’s smile is still lingering as he considers Enjolras for a moment, before clearing his throat and looking back down to the costume still held against his chest. “Think it’ll fit?”

“With your shoulders?” The singular raised eyebrow sent his way alerts Enjolras to the undertone of what he's said. His ears burn. “It’s, uh, probably more my size.”

“True,” Grantaire says, a hint of judgement tinging the word before he thankfully drops it, “but green is _not_ your colour.”

“Lies and slander,” mutters Enjolras with a faux frown, tucking his toes under a nearby pillow to hide his leaf-patterned socks.

“Besides,” the brunet continues with a put-upon sigh, “according to _someone_ Simardian elves aren’t welcome at our Christmas party.”

“Sindarin,” Enjolras corrects, knowing full well he’s being goaded but unable to resist, “and it’s not like I was complaining. I’m a big fan.”

“Yeah,” snorts Grantaire, refolding the outfit. “I got that from the fancy-pants box set I wasn’t allowed to touch when we moved in.”

Feeling his ears heat at the memory, Enjolras sinks lower into the couch. “You were allowed to touch it, just not while you were _also_ touching pizza. It’s special edition.”

It earns him a pointed look and a whispered, “Nerd.”

A realisation dawns on Enjolras. “I don’t think I’ve watched it since we moved in.” It’s silly, but he’s suddenly struck by the urge to marathon the films with Grantaire. He feels almost bad that it hasn’t happened already. “Are you busy tonight?” It’s getting late (well, late for 9+ hours of movie viewing), and they both have work in the morning, but- “We could watch The Fel- the first one?”

A flash crosses Grantaire’s features, and Enjolras is suddenly certain that he’s not the only Tolkien fan in their living room. “I mean, if you _have_ to get your fix, I could be persuaded.”

“I bet if I called your mom, there would be photographs of you dressed as Aragon for Halloween in my inbox before midnight.”

“Well that’s a lost bet,” Grantaire smirks, though his ears have pinkened. “I was Gimli, and it was for my 16th.”

“Nerd,” parrots Enjolras, trying desperately to picture what was surely a lanky Grantaire dressed as the dwarf. He’s definitely going to need those photos.

“Leftovers?” asks the brunet as he ducks his head and moves towards the kitchen.

Responding in the affirmative, Enjolras makes for the cabinet under the television. The box set is tucked right at the back, behind various seasons of Parks & Recreation and Grantaire’s ever-growing collection of thrifted documentaries. 

It was a tight fit to get the box in, and Enjolras has to lie on his stomach to shimmy it out without risking damage to the pristine packaging. 

Just as it comes free a voice sounds above him, and Enjolras almost brains himself on the cabinet as he jolts. 

“Stuck?”

Scrambling to his knees, Enjolras finds himself eye-level with his flatmate’s crotch and move quickly to his feet to remedy the situation. His response comes not even remotely flustered at all. _“No.”_

The smug quirk to Grantaire’s smirk is uncalled for. “Pizza’s in the oven.”

Enjolras raises the box. “Got the movie.”

“Cool. Hey.” Despite the meagre distance between them, Grantaire makes no move to back away as he points up. Taped to the ceiling above them is the- “Mistletoe.”

_How_ had Enjolras not noticed it before now?

The kiss that hits the tip of his nose tickles, and he laughs as the brunet pulls away. Ignoring the blush he feels creeping across his cheeks, Enjolras busies himself with queuing up the film. Apparently he’s still getting used to the sudden increase in physical affection from his flatmate.

He gives his head a quick shake. Grantaire is quite affectionate with most of their friends - Enjolras has come home to more than a few Cuddle Puddles across their living room floor. It’s nice to know that his own friendship with the man has reached a level where contact and closeness are no longer avoided. Smiling at the thought, Enjolras joins Grantaire on the couch as the production company logos start to play.

* * *

By the time Lady Galadriel is handing out gifts Enjolras is willing to admit that he may have spent too much time sitting today. He’s been steadily fidgeting more and more since the troupe had left the Shire, and he still can’t seem to get comfortable.

He’s assuming Grantaire’s growing smirk is directed at him. The man had silently glanced over several times already before finally leaning in with a whisper, expression earnest. “Is it my shoulders?”

“Huh?” Enjolras’s voice is equally hushed despite the fact they’re alone in the apartment.

“It’s just,” a crack forms in his flatmate’s serious facade, “they’re _so_ broad-”

“Oh, fuck you.” How Enjolras thought he could have gotten away with his earlier remark, he’ll never know. 

“Do you need me to move? Give you more space?” Grantaire cackles as he is shoved with a hand to one of the shoulders in question.

It _is_ broad, a firm expanse under Enjolras’s palm. His retaliatory remark catches on his tongue before he reminds himself: Cuddle Puddles.

“Actually.” A flicker of nerves sparks up, but he keeps it from his voice. They’re _friends._ “They look pretty comfy.”

The intended request snags in his throat, but Grantaire understands. “Well then,” he shifts against the couch, arm moving to rest along the back of it. “Be my guest.”

Shuffling closer, Enjolras settles into the space at the man’s side the same way he’s seen Bossuet do fifty times before. The same way he himself does with Courfeyrac on occasion. It’s different with Grantaire, shiny and new - and he had been right: it _is_ comfortable.

Letting himself properly sink into the new position, Enjolras feels a small hum rumble through Grantaire’s chest. He returns his attention to the film just as Boromir begins making some questionable choices, and when the credits eventually roll, the decision to delve into the special features menu is a unanimous one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joly is definitely in possession of an _actual_ Christmas Elf costume :)  
He'll occasionally wear it when he's on rotation in the pediatrics ward this time of year :)  
What a fun fact :) :) :)


	7. Day 6

**R [22:42]** _you up_

Blinking blearily at his phone for several seconds, Enjolras shifts onto his back with a groan. “Taire?” he calls out loud, voice cracking with the edge of sleep he’d been balancing on. 

When he receives no response through their shared wall, he turns back to his phone, clumsily thumbing several attempts at typo-ridden replies before giving up and hitting the call button.

“Evening, Sugarplum,” Grantaire greets him too brightly from down the line.

“Are you home?” mumbles Enjolras, fighting to keep his eyes from falling shut again.

“Oh fuck.” The cheery edge to Grantaire’s voice drops. “Did I wake you?” 

Failing to suppress his yawn, Enjolras covers the mouthpiece in an attempt to hide it. “Almost. What’s up?”

“I’m out the front.”

Enjolras pauses mid-stretch to frown at his ceiling. “Why?”

“It would appear that I have misplaced my keys.”

Struggling into a sitting position, Enjolras pulls his curtain aside to look out the window. A moderate amount of snow is steadily drifting past. 

“And my jacket,” Grantaire adds, his shiver audible.

_“Taire,”_ admonishes Enjolras, sounding more exasperated than he’d intended as he scrambles to his feet. “I’m on my way down.”

“You’re a saint, Apollo!” is heard before Enjolras hangs up.

Clambouring into boots and a coat, Enjolras grabs a spare jacket for his hopeless housemate and prays he doesn’t trip in his haste to get down the stairs.

The brunet beams as Enjolras comes tumbling out the front door of their complex. His gloved hands move from where they’re crossed firmly over his chest to give a little wave before the man turns, taking hold of the Grantaire-and-a-half high potted pine tree sat on the sidewalk beside him. 

Shocked silent, Enjolras can only stare as the beast of a tree is dragged towards him, a snow-banked trail left in its wake. 

“Hey,” puffs Grantaire, straightening to smile sheepishly from the foot of the stoop. “Got us a tree.” 

Enjolras hears himself ask the question that’s starting to feel like his catchphrase lately. “...How?”

“Officially? I found it.” The brunet dusts at what looks suspiciously like soil on his jeans. “Unofficially? Grandpa Pontmercy looked like he had a few too many trees, and Ép happened to be in possession of a tow truck for the night.”

“You _stole-”_

“Shh!” Grantaire’s eyes flit around the not-quite-empty street. “It was Marius’s idea. We grabbed a few to take to the women’s refuge, but this one looked a bit sad, so I thought it could come live with us for a bit?”

Now that it’s closer Enjolras can see several patches of thinned branches and discolouration. Shaken from his stupor by a particularly violent shiver from the other man, Enjolras moves carefully but quickly down several icy steps to hand over the second coat.

“Thanks.” Grantaire’s teeth audibly chatter as he hastens into the garment. 

From his slightly-heightened perspective Enjolras can see snowflakes catching in dark curls. His eyes move back to the tree. “It’s huge.”

Face falling as his shaking fingers finish with the zipper, Grantaire sighs, breath visible in the cold. “Ép might still have the truck, I can call-”

“No no no,” Enjolras interrupts, realising he’s been misunderstood. “I just meant… how are we gonna get it upstairs?”

* * *

Enjolras is well-aware that he possesses a plethora of positive qualities: he is focused, he is driven, he is reliable.

He is _not,_ however, ripped, rugged, or brawny. This fact has never bothered him in the slightest, but he’s certainly conscious of it at the moment, courtesy of the task at hand.

They’ve managed to navigate the pine halfway up the three flights of stairs to their apartment when Grantaire starts to giggle, abruptly stopping to balance the pot on a step and making Enjolras realise just how little he’s been contributing to the carrying.

“What?” he puffs, trying to catch a glimpse of blue eyes through the sparser branches.

“It’s just- I was just-” The words are lost to another breathless chuckle. “I’m having flashbacks to getting your couch up these stairs.”

“Oh God,” groans Enjolras, recalling the sweltering heat of late June. “That's coming up to six months ago, yeah?”

“Six months on Sunday,”

Enjolras has been vaguely aware of the approaching milestone, but hearing it out loud it suddenly seems significant. “We should do something.”

“Huh?” The puffing has abated, but Grantaire still sounds breathless.

“To celebrate.” Enjolras’s own lungs seem to tighten. “If I recall correctly, you didn’t think we’d last a week.” 

There’s a long beat broken only by the plastic pot creaking as Enjolras adjusts his grip before Grantaire hums. “So… an ‘I Told You So’ dinner?”

“No!” The tree jolts, slipping down a step despite Enjolras’s best efforts to pull it back. “That’s not- I meant-”

Grantaire cackles. “I jest! I jest!” Righting the pot, the two continue their trek up the stairs. “But yeah, we should totally do something.”

Further conversation is lost to renewed puffing and straining until the pine has been maneuvered into their living room. It sits roughly six inches short of brushing the ceiling, and Grantaire beams as he steps back to look it over.

“It’s a little plain,” notes Enjolras, purely for the reaction it’s sure to elicit. He isn’t disappointed, wide blue eyes turning on him coupled with a playful shove.

“There’s no pleasing some,” huffs Grantaire, face softening further as he looks back to the tree.

Between the two of them it doesn’t take long to clean up the few patches of spilt soil along the hallway. Kicking off his boots, Enjolras puts his dirtied coat in the wash basket before joining Grantaire at the bathroom sink. They bump shoulders as they scrub the dirt from their hands, and Enjolras can’t fight a sudden smile. It has been _years_ since he’s had a Christmas tree of his own, and the strong smell of fresh pine coming from the man beside him is oddly elating.

Due probably to being less distracted but also definitely because he hogged the water, Grantaire finishes washing up first.

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching Enjolras’s eye in the mirror as he dries his hands and pointedly glances upward. 

Enjolras tracks the man’s gaze, tilting his head back to find a now-familiar sprig hanging innocently above them. Turning to face Grantaire, he’s met with cold lips to the tip of his equally cold nose. The novelty of these surprise kisses still hasn’t worn off, the same knee-jerk breathless huff rising from Enjolras’s chest as the brunet exits the room with a grin.

Quickly rinsing his hands, Enjolras’s eyes drift to his reflection while he dries them. His cheeks are pinker than they have any right to be, and as he glances back up at the mistletoe a thought occurs.

“Hey.” Coming out of the bathroom, he finds his housemate in the process of transferring some of Jehan’s lights from the walls to the tree. “Did you know you were going to be enlisting my help to move stolen shrubbery before you left this afternoon?” There’s no way the man was out of sight long enough to have strung the mistletoe up without Enjolras noticing otherwise.

“Of course.” Shadows dance as Grantaire shrugs, lasso of light in hand. “An unplanned grand tree heist is a grand tree heist doomed to failure.”


	8. Day 7

Friday marks the last official ABC meetup of the year, and as such, it’s less of a meeting and more an excuse to get well and truly merry.

A pleasant buzz hums under Enjolras’s skin as he and Grantaire exit the late bus, laughing as the icy path adds a touch of flailing to their short journey home.

His housemate had arrived almost on-time to the Musain - possibly a first for the year - trailing Feuilly with a smile and two pints. Grantaire hadn’t brought his backpack, and Enjolras faintly recalls that this is significant in some way as they struggle up the stairs.

_Oh! That’s right! The game!_ Because it is a game now. Trying to guess what in the world Grantaire will bring home from whom next. Eyeing the brunet’s coat, Enjolras assumes that whatever today’s treasure is must be small enough to fit in one of the pockets. His hunch gains traction when, upon stumbling into their apartment, Grantaire keeps his jacket firmly zipped.

Wetting his lower lip, the brunet smirks. “Place your bets: I’ll give you three guesses at the pocket.”

_Ah, a_ new _game._ Enjolras’s eyes scan the jacket, noting it to be practically made of pockets. “And if I guess wrong?”

“Well,” a small shrug is sent his way as the man turns and begins walking down the hallway, “guess you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what it is.”

“Cruel.” Eyeing the pockets at the back of the coat as he follows, Enjolras tentatively crosses them off the list of likely options. “How big is it?”

The answer comes in the form of a mute wink as the man switches on the Christmas lights before flopping gracelessly backwards onto his half of the couch.

Instead of taking his usual place to Grantaire’s right, Enjolras remains standing, removing his own jacket while trying to tap into the mind of the man before him. 

The main pockets would be too obvious, unless that’s what he _expects_ Enjolras to think, in which case they’d be perfect. The back pockets are out of view, but that’s not to say they’re out of the game. Hell, whatever it is might be crammed under Grantaire’s beanie: Enjolras wouldn’t put it past him.

“Tick tock, Goldilocks.”

“That one,” Enjolras points to a medium-sized zippered-shut pocket sitting to the left side of the man’s chest.

“Nope.”

With a huff, Enjolras feels his eyes narrow, scarf and gloves unceremoniously joining his jacket on the coffee table. “You didn’t even check.”

“I don’t have to check,” Grantaire laughs. _“I_ know.”

“Well maybe I don’t believe you.” Despite trying for diplomatic, Enjolras ends up sounding more like a petulant pre-teen.

The scandalised look sent his way is softened by the brunet’s persistent grin. “You think I’d lie?”

“I mean, your continued refusal to demonstrate a supposed fact sure does _sound_ like guilt to me, but-”

“Oh my God,” Grantaire is laughing again, and Enjolras feels a trill of satisfaction at the sound. “It’s got a dicky zip, but _fine._ See for yourself, Sherlock.” 

A short struggle later, the pocket is open. Enjolras stumbles as he moves closer to look, taking a seat on the couch and hooking his finger on the fabric to inspect the very empty interior.

“I take my apologies in the form of rock ballads and interpretive dances,” quips the brunet, cheeks flushed.

“I fear that either of those options will only result in the need for further apologies.”

“A vicious cycle.” The lights around them slowly filter through their flickering pattern, glinting off of Grantaire’s eyes like tiny galaxies. “Two guesses left.”

Blinking away, Enjolras drops his gaze down to the world’s worst advent calendar and tries to spot any obvious obtrusions. There’s even pockets on the _sleeves._ “This one,” he ventures, poking at a buttoned-shut section on the closest sleeve and feeling the bicep beneath jolt at the sudden jab.

When Grantaire starts cackling Enjolras is sure he’s guessed right, but then brunet curls begin shaking in the negative, and he’s forced to halt his premature celebration. “That- that one-” Another peal of laughter escapes the man, eyes watering when he eventually gets himself under control. “It’s full of bees.”

Poking at the half-envelope sized pocket a second time, Enjolras raises a pointed eyebrow. “Okay, this time I actually don’t believe you.”

It sets off another giggle fit, one that Enjolras finds himself joining in on as Grantaire pulls open the pocket to reveal a black and white card that simply reads: _Bees?_

Already taking longer than it should for them to regain their composure, Enjolras allows himself an extra moment to truly appreciate how much he enjoys his ridiculous, wonderful flatmate.

“Okay, okay.” With an adorable little shake, Grantaire twists sideways in his seat to face Enjolras. “Lucky last: what’s it gonna be, Apollo?”

The curiosity is killing him, and he refuses to sleep without finding out what Grantaire has brought home. It suddenly dawns on him that - outside of a guess count - this game never specified any rules. Which means there’s nothing stopping him from making a more… _informed_ estimate. He’s always been a big fan of loopholes.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras turns to mirror the man’s position, firmly placing his hands on Grantaire's shoulders and giving a small, exploratory squeeze at the pockets there before slowly inching lower. “You might think that you and your million pockets are going to get the best of me,” the chest pockets are also empty to the touch, hands continuing their search as the brunet huffs a laugh, eyebrows raising in a way that suggests a strong judging of Enjolras’s strategy. Nevertheless, he persists. “But we both know that I’m not going to bed tonight without-” His left pinky catches on something solid just under his flatmate’s ribcage, and his pulse begins to thrum with victory. “This one!” he declares, unbuttoning the flap of the pocket to reveal… nothing?

Grantaire looks too gleeful to really sell his shocked gasp. “Internal pockets? How devio-ah!”

The cushion flung at him is swiftly followed by a barely-coordinated blond (who has historically been known to face defeat with slightly more grace). Both laugh through the tussle, probably too loudly judging by the thumping from the floor below. 

The jacket has come unzipped in the roughhousing, and Enjolras seizes a shiny object from where it peeks out, sinking back against the arm on his side of the couch and pushing aside the fleeting thought that he’s suddenly too far away from the man beside him.

It’s a metal star, sturdy despite the intricate welding and no doubt handmade. Enjolras feels a sudden and almost overwhelming burst of pride in his chest at just how incredibly talented his friends are. 

Feuilly’s metal work, Jehan’s way with words, Joly’s knitting, and Grantaire’s…

Grantaire’s _everything._ His drawings, his singing, his dancing, his _cooking._ Hell, even the photos he posts to facebook always seem perfectly lit and interestingly angled.

Glancing up from the star, Enjolras finds the man in question already staring back. There’s a furrow in his brow that wasn’t there before, and he’s struck by the urge to smooth it. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” The crease deepens briefly before disappearing. “Just, um. Hey.”

Enjolras’s head drops back to follow Grantaire’s pointed look, and sure enough a familiar sprig is hanging innocently over his side of the couch. Laughing, he pushes himself to sit up straighter. “Hey.”

It’s easy to blame his cider-dizzy brain for the way his chin tilts, _towards_ rather than away. With a nudge of nose to cheek he is corrected, stubble prickling along the edge of his jaw before wine-stained lips press against the sensitive skin near his ear. 

The kiss itself is quick, like always, but Grantaire doesn’t pull very far away once it's done. Which is against the rules. Because this is the other game they’re playing. The one with soft touches and shared breaths. And staying under the mistletoe this long isn’t allowed, because it’s leading Enjolras to wonder at the possible raised stakes of a reprise.

“You always move it.” The space between them is nowhere near enough for Enjolras to process his sudden curiosity with discovering the exact parameters of this game. 

Rather unhelpfully, Grantaire re-wets his lip. “I do.”

“Why?” His pulse feels too loud as he tries to match his breathing to Grantaire’s, hot against the side of his face from where their foreheads are touching.

“Science?”

The inquisitive sound Enjolras makes in response isn’t entirely intentional. He’s learned to live with Grantaire’s roundabout way of speaking, but his head is currently confused enough without the riddles.

The brunet’s eyes fall shut, dark lashes fanning out against his cheek, too close to count. “Gotta find the best spot for smoochin’ before Wednesday.”

_My room,_ Enjolras’s brain helpfully supplies.

“My room,” his mouth echoes without consent.

Bright blue eyes blink open as the man lifts his head. The furrow is back. “Huh?”

“I uh-” Grip tightening, Enjolras is alerted to the fact that at some point in the last however long it’s been he’s grabbed hold of Grantaire’s coat. Relinquishing his death grip on the lapel, Enjolras scrambles up on unsteady legs. “I have to go to my room.” 

“Enj?” 

There’s an edge of worry that stops him from outright bolting, but only barely. He doesn’t want the man to panic - there’s nothing to panic _about_ \- Enjolras just needs a second to assess the apparent disconnect taking place between his brain and his… everything else. “I’ll be right back,” he manages, tripping in heavy boots to his bedroom.

He doesn’t slam the door, but it’s a near thing with the way his hands are currently betraying him. In the dark his head spins, suddenly feeling much drunker than his three(?) ciders have left him. Flicking on the light helps, as does steadying himself against the wood of his door. 

After several counted breaths he feels more centred, albeit still flustered.

_My room._ Where had that even come from? With distance and a door between them, Enjolras no longer feels the bizarre pull that had had him nonsensical a moment ago. Putting it down to crossed wires, he breathes a little easier. 

He likes this game, likes that Grantaire wants to joke with him like this. Likes Grantaire - _platonically._ They’re friends. They’re _flatmates._

Grantaire is probably starting to wonder at Enjolras’s continued absence. Flushing at the thought of explaining himself - _‘oh, sorry about that, I just had the weirdest urge to kiss you, can you imagine?’_ \- his eyes drop to the star still in his hands, and he wonders what Feuilly would do in this sort of situation.

* * *

“I’m back,” announces Enjolras after a final calming breath.

Grantaire flails up from where he’d been lying on the couch, phone clutched tightly in his hand. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It occurs to him that his flatmate is still under the mistletoe, and the thought is hastily shoved away. “Just thought this could use a little added charm.” Waving the star at Grantaire, Enjolras heads towards their tree, stopping short at the foot of it. “I don’t think I can reach.”

The brunet is beside him in a heartbeat, his perplexed expression melting into a face-splitting smile as he looks down at Enjolras’s handiwork. “Now _that’s_ a star.”

Enjoras’s ears burn at the praise, stepping aside so that Grantaire can place the decoration atop the tree. Even with his additional height, it’s quite a stretch. He sways, and Enjolras shakes off his hesitation to put steadying hands to the man’s waist.

Dropping down from tip-toes, Grantaire slings an easy arm around Enjolras’s shoulders, beaming up at the tree.

A clumsily craft-taped photograph of Feuilly grins back at them from the centre of the star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so a little backstory on the fleeting mention of what is without a doubt my favourite Cards Against Humanity card: I imagine it's part of some long-running joke where when Joly does his hypochondriac thing of running through symptoms he's displaying, Bossuet and R will start suggesting possible causes and eventually one of them will just pull out the Bees? card and everyone laughs and life is wonderful.


	9. Day 8

It’s midday by the time Enjolras wakes. Having slept well-past the reaches of any potential hangover he all but leaps out of bed, fuzzy mouth in dire need of a glass of water.

It takes him longer than it should to realise that the lump of blankets on the couch is in fact his roommate. Coming to a halt, he wonders just how much the usually early-riser drank last night to warrant out-sleeping him when he notices the flour-dusted hair, laptop on the floor, and an assortment of large red and green candles littered across the coffee table.

Grantaire’s already been out, then.

Quietly edging closer to the sleeping brunet, Enjolras picks up a red candle from the collection. A large golden ornamental ‘R’ is emblazoned on the side, and for a moment Enjolras is left to wonder why the man has put his nickname on a bunch of candles; a quick inspection of the rest (and a minute for his sleepy brain to click) illustrates that they probably spell out ‘Merry Christmas’ when in order.

Carefully replacing the candle, Enjolras ponders on the new addition to their decorations as he continues his thirst-quenching quest.

There’s fresh croissants in the bread bin, and Grantaire is officially the best flatmate in the entire city. It’s impossible to improve on perfection, so he doesn’t bother debating condiments, plating up the plain pastry and filling the largest mug they own with water before returning to the living room. 

The couch remains occupied, and while they have an armchair Enjolras opts to take a seat on the carpet by the coffee table, pushing aside candles to make room for his breakfast. Lunch? Brunch.

Golden flakes melt against his tongue with his first bite of croissant, and he barely muffles his sound of utter appreciation as he savors the flavor. It’s one from the cafe, made with the fancy butter, and Enjolras is so grateful he could kiss Grant- 

_Nope._

That’s not a thing he thinks. He has never thought that. Has he?

No. Definitely not.

Taking a large gulp of water, Enjolras’s eyes flick over to the still-sleeping man across from him.

He could _high-five_ Grantaire with gratitude.

Memories of last night’s bizarre impulse trickle back to him as he takes another bite, allowing himself a moment while alone-but-not-alone to try to sort through his sudden quandary.

He’s aware, in a distant sort of way, that his flatmate is conventionally attractive. 

Like Combeferre. 

Enjolras is friends with Combeferre. He’s never found himself struck with the urge to kiss Combeferre. In fact, even imagining kissing Combeferre makes Enjolras balk. He takes a gulp of water.

Control parameters in place, he hesitantly lets himself consider what a kiss - a real one - with Grantaire might be like. It doesn’t turn his stomach (like it had with Combeferre), but there’s also no breathless swooping sensation below his lungs like last night. Content that he’s merely overthinking an outlier, Enjolras turns his focus away from the snoring brunet to the candles in front of him.

* * *

A scratchy voice breaks through Enjolras’s rapidly-thumbed tirade. “Facebook or reddit?” 

“Huh?” Pausing in his typing to glance up, he finds Grantaire smirking at him with bleary blue eyes.

“You’re huffing,” the man informs him, kicking off his blanket as he stretches. 

“Sorry.”

“Nah.” Sitting up, Grantaire rubs at his eyes. His hair is ridiculous. “It’s cute.”

Enjolras flushes (it’s _not_ a swoop) and is saved the struggle of responding by his flatmate noticing the candles. A grown man’s giggle shouldn’t be so endearing.

During Grantaire’s almost hour-long nap, Enjolras hadn’t been able to resist the impulse to rearrange the decorative letters, ‘SMARTY CRIMES’ now in place of the original holiday tiding. 

The brunet slowly drags himself up to a sitting position, and as he reaches for the candles Enjolras moves to the now-empty space on the couch for a better vantage point.

‘E IS SMART,’ the candles declare as Grantaire nudges Enjolras with his elbow, grin morphing into a smirk. “But…” The man cracks his knuckles before shuffling the candles again, now proclaiming ‘R IS MASTER.’

A challenging eyebrow is raised at him, and Enjolras can’t help but retaliate. It’s much harder to think with the pressure of Grantaire’s eyes on him, but after a minute he has his response - ‘MISTER CHARM’ - turning back just in time to catch the delighted expression on his roommate’s face before the man dives for the letters.

‘MR MARTYR,’ the candles accuse from the coffee table, and God, it’s been so long since Grantaire has called him that and meant it.

Smirking, Enjolras leans into the joke. ‘RESIST’ he arranges, but before pulling back he spots an additional word in the unused jumble of letters. ‘RESIST MYRRH.’

That earns an audible snort from the man beside him, long fingers flexing where they hover above the tabletop while eyes flit over the candles. Pulling a face that suggests he’s already judging himself for his decision, Grantaire moves the letters. ‘TRY HAREMS.’

Shooting his roommate a flat look, Enjolras elbows him at the suggestion.

Laughing, Grantaire shuffles the candles into ‘CHRIST MY ARM.’

“You win,” Enjolras audibly concedes, picking up candle closest to him - an ‘M’ - before flopping back against the couch. “Where’d you get them?”

“Cosette,” replies Grantaire, selecting a few letters of his own. “She’s got an insane candle collection.”

The design of the lettering is impressively intricate. Enjolras distractedly traces a finger along the edge of the gold leaf before jolting at the exaggerated clearing of a throat beside him. 

As he turns to face his flatmate he finds ‘HEY’ displayed in green, red, and gold, balancing atop the man’s forearm. When the message kicks in Enjolras can’t believe he’d sat down without checking. Raising his eyes to the ceiling he finds… nothing?

“Shit, it’s Pavlovian,” Grantaire whispers, a hint of humour to his tone.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t even _say_ it!”

“You know,” Enjolras coughs, an unwelcome blush creeping its way up his neck, “I’m starting to think that when Ép calls you a bastard, it’s not entirely affectionate.”

It earns a snort. “Only took you six months.”

“I’ve had my suspicions.”

Whatever Grantaire’s response was going to be is cut off by a jaw-clickingly wide yawn, followed by a full-body shiver and rapid blinking.

Seizing the opportunity for a subject change, Enjolras turns an assessing eye on the man beside him. “Did you get enough sleep?” he asks. It’s earlier than usual for Grantaire to have already taken his nap.

“Mm, I got up at 4.”

Enjolras flinches at the prospect. 4am isn’t real. “I thought you started at 6 today?”

“I did.” The brunet leans back against where his blanket is bunched on the armrest, his candle-free hand rubbing at his eyes before he snaps his focus to Enjolras. “That reminds me, did you get your-”

“Croissant?” His question is probably enough of an answer judging from the way Grantaire resumes his relaxing, but Enjolras continues anyway. “I did, thank you. It was incredible, as always.”

“You’re such a sucker for pastries, Apollo.” It’s an obvious deflection - the brunet’s cheeks are taking on a slight flush - and it’s baffling that he still can’t take the compliment when Enjolras makes sure to pay it to him at least twice a week. 

“Whose fault is that?” Enjolras rebuts, bumping his knee against Grantaire’s and glancing up to see the man shaking his head; a grin threatens at the edge of his flatmate’s flushed face. Taking pity, he drops the subject. “Why were you up so early? Couldn’t sleep?”

“Oh, I absolutely could have.” Another yawn. “It’s Ruben’s birthday tomorrow, and Amelie said they won’t have signal where they’re gonna be camping, so I wanted to catch him before they left.”

“That’s sweet.” Enjolras had been quite unprepared for how much of an adorable sap Uncle R is back in June, but now it’s just another of the many (many) aspects of the man that he feels privileged to know. “He’s gotta be turning what, seven?”

“Eight.”

“Wow.”

“He was five last time I saw him,” notes Grantaire. It sounds blasé, but his face has tightened. “I gotta get over there.”

“You will,” promises Enjolras. He knows that Grantaire has been taking on more and more digital work lately. As much as the man complains about logo designs, they appear to pay well enough, and Enjolras knows that almost all of that additional income has been going straight into the _‘R’s Australian Adventure’_ fund. 

A small smile takes the edge off of the brunet’s clouded expression. “Yeah, I will.”

Content silence washes over the two for a moment before Grantaire yawns again. 

“I’m making coffee,” announces Enjolras, yawning himself as he gets to his feet. “You want one?” 

“Always.” As the man stretches, one of the candles in his lap falls onto the floor, bouncing off of his foot and rolling under the coffee table.

“I’ll get it,” Enjolras volunteers, seeing as he’s closer. Getting to his knees, he crawls under the table only to be jostled as his flatmate shimmies in alongside him. Pausing in his quest for the green and gold ‘Y,’ Enjolras cocks an eyebrow at the brunet. “What are you-?”

“Hey.” The grin splitting Grantaire’s face is a far cry from the sour expression of two minutes ago.

It’s so cramped that Enjolras has to drop to his stomach and roll over to see that yes, the mistletoe is indeed taped to the underside of the coffee table. His lungs perform a mini somersault as Grantaire lands a firmer-than-usual peck on his cheek. “I’ve been _played.”_

A tiny shrug must be all that is achievable in such cramped quarters. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Enjolras scoffs. _“Such_ a punishment.”

Hearing his words as he says them, he flushes. Truly, it isn’t. He likes this game: it’s a daily reminder that their friendship is miles from what it had been, and what’s not to like about that? But that crease is back in Grantaire’s brow, and Enjolras wonders if he’s misspoken.

A phone buzzes on the table - shockingly loud from beneath it - and the two are jolted from the bizarre moment they’d been frozen in as they scramble out to the open air of the living room.

It’s Enjolras’s phone, Courfeyrac wanting to know which game they're playing this week so he can get to work on his ‘*~*~* strategy*~*~*’.

“Are we still doing something tomorrow?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire looks up from where he’s reaching for his laptop. “For our six-month thing?”

“Yeah?” The man’s gaze drops to the screen before him, and he gives a small shrug. “If you still want.”

“I do.”

“Dinner? I could cook?”

The _‘God yes’_ is on the tip of Enjolras’s tongue, but he catches himself. Grantaire makes them dinner several nights a week as is, and despite the fact that Enjolras is always 100% down to eat the offensively delicious food the man makes, he hesitates. “You don’t want the night off?”

His flatmate shrugs again, a half-grin growing on his features. “I like cooking.”

The sincerity of the statement eases the niggling in Enjolras’s shoulders. “If you’re sure.”

“More than sure.”

“Okay.” As he returns the broad smile the man sends him, Enjolras feels a trill _(not_ swoop) of excitement at the prospect of the following evening. “It’s a date.”


	10. Day 9

_It’s_ not _a date,_ Enjolras reminds himself as he juggles his jacket and a mid-to-high shelf bottle of red on his way up the second flight of stairs.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre had taken great delight in teasing him over his milestone dinner with Grantaire (to their own detriment, Enjolras had annihilated the pair of them at Risk as a result), but it’s _not_ a date. Dates come with awkward small talk, stilted silences, and _connotations._

This is just two friends taking some time to commemorate the event that had led to the solidification of their friendship. Jehan had composed Enjolras an entire song to celebrate their first year of knowing each other, so a dinner - something he and Grantaire do at least three times a week anyway - is nothing noteworthy. 

That said, Enjolras _had_ let Courfeyrac talk him into exchanging his baggy tee for a borrowed dress shirt. The faintly-floral fabric sits snugger than Enjolras tends to prefer, but he’s sure he’s just being self-conscious, and it’s not like Grantaire is even going to notice.

Arriving at their floor, Enjolras pauses outside of their doorway a moment to try to tame his windswept curls. He foregoes the search for his keys in favour of knocking.

It’s not a date.

Enjolras is instantly grateful he’d accepted the change of shirt when the door opens to reveal Grantaire in his own pale green button-down under a red ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. He’s brushed his hair.

“Happy six months,” blurts Enjolras, awkwardly thrusting the wine bottle forward. His flatmate laughs as he takes it along with Enjolras’s jacket, hanging the latter on the stand by the door and leading the way to the kitchen.

He isn’t sure how or when Grantaire figured out that vegetarian lasagne is his favourite, but Enjolras knows by the mouth-watering smell that it’s what’s on the menu.

“So.” Grantaire finishes fiddling with the egg timer and turns his focus to where Enjolras is fetching two wine glasses. “Spend all afternoon in jail again?”

“No?” Pausing, Enjolras suddenly recalls their conversation from the week prior. “ Oh! _Actually_ no. Today I uh, took a Risk?”

“Oof,” grins Grantaire, halfway through uncorking the bottle, “four out of ten for that pun, my guy. Your wordplay was fine, but that shakey execution?” A muted ‘pop’ sounds as the cork comes free. “You’re better than that.”

Indignant, Enjolras juts his chin. “No need to _wine_ about my technique, Taire.” 

“See?” The brunet takes the proffered wineglasses and begins filling them. “Knew you had it in you.”

Returning the man’s smile, Enjolras accepts his glass back from his flatmate. “I learned from the best.”

“Well then.” Grantaire offers a wordless toast.

In the interest of pacing himself, Enjolras takes only a small sip.

“This,” notes the brunet, picking up the bottle and inspecting the label, “is not a cheap wine.”

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s a special occasion.”

Turning towards the bench, Grantaire relocates the cutting board to the sink. “Dinner’s about ten minutes away.”

“Need me to do anything?”

“Yeah, not ruin me for other wines.” The man has another taste of his drink. “This is a palatable paradise.”

The fifteen minutes Enjolras had spent labouring over the choices in the store suddenly feel wholly worthwhile. “It’s only fair,” he responds. “Your cooking has set my standards way too high.”

With a snort, Grantaire’s eyes flick over to the timer and stove before returning to Enjolras. “I’m debating making it one of my resolutions next year, teaching you at least three meals.”

“Really? That would be-” Despite his tongue catching as he fumbles for an adequate adjective, Enjolras can feel his smile grow. If he could master just one of the incredible recipes Grantaire has been serving up over the last six months he’d be thrilled. Hell, even if he _couldn’t,_ he’s sure he’d still end up at least a touch less hopeless in the kitchen, and it’s not like it’ll be boring if it’s Grantaire showing him the ropes. “I’d like that.”

The brunet’s grin is almost hidden by the rim of his glass. “I’ll put it on the list.”

Pausing with his own drink half-raised to his lips, Enjolras quirks an eyebrow. “As in… an actual literal list?” His curiosity piques when the other man nods. “Do you make a list every year?”

“Mmhmm.” Setting his glass down as his smile tightens a touch, the brunet’s arms cross over his chest.

“What was-” He catches himself. Grantaire’s ears are steadily reddening and tempted as Enjolras is, he gets the impression he shouldn't pry. “Did you accomplish everything on this year’s list?”

Their eyes meet for a beat before Grantaire glances away again. “Almost.”

Enjolras is going to be up all night wondering at that, he can tell. “Well,” he offers, “you’ve still got a week.”

With a bark of laughter, Grantaire’s arms uncross, moving to hold the edge of the counter as he leans back against it. “That I do.”

The changed angle of the man’s shoulders twist his open collar, and the edge of his sprawling sunflower tattoo comes into view. Enjolras has seen it before - in its entirety - and his cheeks burn as he finds himself thinking back to the design underneath his flatmate’s shirt. “I’ve never done that,” he says, a little louder than intended. “Made a New Year’s resolution.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” With a shrug he leans back against the island bench. “I have _goals._ Things I want to achieve. But they’re either tied in with work or the ABC, or they’re long-term. Like, _long_ long-term, more than I can squeeze into twelve months.”

After a moment of consideration, Grantaire speaks. “I like it,” he shrugs. “Having my list to turn to when I get a little aimless. Then that feeling that I’ve actually accomplished something when I look back on the year. Even when it’s simple stuff, it feels nice.”

It _sounds_ nice. Enjolras ponders briefly on what differences he’d like to see in his life by next December, but nothing immediately springs to mind.

Pulled from his thoughts by the timer sounding, Enjolras tops up their wine as Grantaire begins plating their meals. Ditching his apron, the brunet leads the way into the living room. They don’t have a proper dining space, but neither have ever minded sitting on the floor to use the coffee table.

As Grantaire places the plates on opposite sides of the table, Enjolras spots what must be today’s acquisition: a singular bauble hangs on their tree. Moving closer to investigate, he finds that there is a photograph inside of it: a young gap-toothed Gavroche scowling out at him through the small flurry of fake snow in the ball.

“Hey, fair warning.” Grantaire’s voice is closer than Enjolras expects. An automatic glance upwards reveals only empty ceiling. “That’s one of Ép’s prized possessions, and if anything happens to it we’re _both_ headed for the guillotine.”

Enjolras nods, smiling despite wholeheartedly believing the threat. “Duly noted.”

They return to their cooling meals, taking a seat on the pre-prepared floor cushions. Grantaire raises his glass, and Enjolras is quick to meet the toast. “Here’s to surviving the last six months.”

‘Surviving’ isn’t the word Enjolras would use these days, but he definitely recalls thinking it at the start. “I know I was kind of pushy back in June-”

_“‘Kind_ of,’” Grantaire snorts. 

Enjolras’s face heats, and he fights the urge to duck his head. “-but I’m really glad you moved in.”

His flatmate meets his eye, and a rare open smile blooms across his features. “Me too.”

With a clink of glass on glass, they dig into their meal.

* * *

With dinner completed (and the promise of leftovers for lunch the following day), Grantaire exchanges their dirtied plates for a small tupperware container, and only makes Enjolras guess at which dessert might be inside three times before revealing it.

Two miniature white chocolate cheesecakes are removed from the tub, an upturned strawberry atop each with a dab of white frosting on the tips. They look like tiny Santa hats and Enjolras probably should have expected the festive theme to creep in somewhere.

“You’re properly into this stuff, aren’t you?” he asks, marvelling at the simple-yet-effective composition before taking a bite out of his strawberry.

“What, Christmas?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow as his pinky swipes at frosting. He makes a non-committal noise as he licks his finger, but at Enjolras's pointed look in the direction of the tree and back to their cheesecakes, the man comes clean. “Yeah I, uh. Freaking love Christmas.”

There’s always a minor thrill that accompanies learning new things about his flatmate, and Enjolras feels it now. “What’s your favourite part?”

Taking his first bite of cheesecake, Grantaire appears to consider his answer until his mouth is no longer full. “Okay, so this is super sappy.” He pauses to have a swig of his drink, eyes fixed on the tabletop. “But probably the nostalgia? Like, growing up, Christmas was just a really fun time around the house. Mom would always find the most beat up tree in the lot, and then Ames and me would each get a side to decorate, and it was like this dumb competition.” The man hums as he takes another small mouthful, head tilting a touch to the side. “Mom would never actually _pick_ a winner, but I was definitely always the winner.”

“No doubt.” Enjolras grins around his spoon. There are two red patches high on Grantaire’s cheeks, and the man is wearing such a delighted grin that Enjolras can’t help but mimic the expression.

“What about you?” Grantaire blinks up from the table. “What was Christmas like in the Enjolras household?”

Washing his mouthful of biscuit base down with the last of his wine, Enjolras tries to think of a word to aptly sum up the festive season in his family home. “Formal?”

Grantaire doesn’t respond beyond an inquisitively raised eyebrow.

“My parents would host these big gala dinners, and I’d have to wear these stuffy suits and play nice with my douchey cousins while sitting through five-to-eight courses of food which probably cost more than our monthly rent.”

“Oof,” is all Grantaire offers, and six months ago Enjolras might have interpreted it as a taunt, but these days he knows better.

_“Big_ oof.” After two glasses of wine, he isn’t drunk, but his tongue is a little looser than it might otherwise be, and he hears himself continue. “God, my mom would make us do those - you know - those dumb family portrait cards, you know the ones?”

“Oh my God,” breathes the brunet, eyes bright.

_“Right?”_ The barely suppressed laughter across from him does nothing but validate his years of protesting the shoot. “She’d get like, hair and make up people, and a professional photographer, and it would take hours, and it _sucked._ And there would-”

“We should do that.”

Freezing mid-rant, Enjolras feels a confused frown pulling at his features. “... suck?”

“No,” Grantaire seems to light up with excited energy. “The card. We should make a dumb card.”

“...on purpose?”

“Why not?” A mischievous grin forms. “Let’s deck the damn halls, Enj!” Clamouring to his feet, Grantaire offers a hand to pull Enjolras up. “I’ll set up the backdrop, do you still have your sweater from Joly?” 

Already nodding, the rest of the man’s declaration sinks in. “What, now?”

“Christmas is in _three_ days!” The brunet looks borderline manic, already shifting the coffee table out of the way. “The best time to do this was two weeks ago, the second best time is tonight!”

“You’re ridiculous,” Enjolras can’t help but laugh, caving and heading on a sweater-quest to his bedroom.

“I learned from the best!”

Ten minutes later and the living room is unrecognisable. Grantaire has dragged the couch to sit in front of the tree, Christmas lights trail across the arms and back of it. The reindeer statues have been released from their under-the-desk prison and are precariously perched on branches and scattered around the floor. Tinsel has appeared from nowhere, thrown over anything it might cling to. Two standing lamps from Grantaire’s room have been brought out to light the scene, and the man himself is busy balancing his phone against a stack of books on the coffee table which appear to be acting as a makeshift tripod.

Jazzy jingles from Musichetta’s mixtape tie it all together, and Enjolras’s eyes widen in awe as he takes in the scene.

“You’re back!” exclaims Grantaire, grinning broadly as Enjolras throws him one of the sweaters Joly had knitted for last year’s Christmas. He receives a Santa hat in return, the brunet wrestling a reindeer-antlered headband into his own dark curls. “What do you think?”

Enjolras thinks that no one but Grantaire could pull something like this together at the drop of a hat. “It looks amazing.”

Beaming, Grantaire motions for Enjolras to move to the couch. “Timer’s set,” his flatmate informs him, hitting a button on the phone and taking the space to his left. “It’ll take a picture every five seconds until we switch it off.”

“What do we do?” Despite being forced into similar circumstances for almost a decade, Enjolras has always felt lost whenever a camera turns his way.

A warning beep sounds from the phone as Grantaire turns to him with a grin and a length of tinsel. “Whatever the hell we want.”

The tinsel is launched at Enjolras’s face as the shutter effect sounds. He joins in laughing with his flatmate as he scrambles free of the sparkly garland, and with that the last shreds of propriety fall away.

They get tangled in the lights, juggle the reindeer, and pose like awkward teens at prom. The wine from dinner has Enjolras loose-limbed enough to not have realised how in-each-other’s space they’ve gotten until Grantaire is fixing him with That Look, and Enjolras doesn’t even have to hear the “Hey” that follows it to know that yup, above them the mistletoe is tied to one of the lamps.

Enjolras is practically cackling as the warning from the phone sounds, and his cheek is kissed with such enthusiasm that the pair almost topple off the couch. Flailing on instinct, he grasps at Grantaire’s sweater, pulling the man flush against him as the moment is captured. They wheeze through the following photo before Grantaire finally manages to get up, collecting his phone and switching off the timer. 

He returns to the couch, pushing tinsel out of the way to sink in beside Enjolras, whose head quickly falls against the broad shoulder beside him in search of a better view of the screen. Grantaire thumbs through the pictures, the two of them picking out favourites and laughing at each others’ antics. Every picture is ten times better than any of the professional shots Enjolras has ever had to sit through with his parents.

If anyone had told Enjolras last Christmas that he would have consented to something like this - with Grantaire of all people - he wouldn’t have believed them. They’d wasted so much time.

When the camera roll gets to the kiss Enjolras feels his face heating. It’s so… domestic. In the picture he’s red-cheeked and mid-giggle, and Grantaire’s smile had made maintaining the kiss a near-impossibility, his face mostly just smooshed against Enjolras’s cheek.

The final photo is somehow even more domestic, Enjolras’s hands gripping loosely at Grantaire’s sweater while the brunet’s entire focus seems to be on returning Enjolras’s grin.

“Can you send me those?” Enjolras asks quietly, shifting to look at the man beside him. “I’m petty, and I want to send one to my mom. Show her those stuffy photoshoots could have actually been fun.”

A beat later he receives a soft “Of course.”

After a quick tidy, conscious that they both have work in the morning, the night comes to a close. Enjolras flops onto his bed, heart full, and allows himself a moment to be thankful for his previous shitty landlord, who had kick-started the chain of events that had led to tonight.

Sitting up, he removes his sweater and Courfeyrac’s button-down shirt and trades his jeans for pyjama shorts. As he curls up under his comforter his phone lights up, and when a cursory glance at the screen informs him that Grantaire has sent an image to the Amis group chat, he thumbs it open.

It’s one of the earlier photos from the night, the two of them strung together with the tinsel while trying to knock loose the other’s festive headwear. A tacky candy cane border has been added, and the phrase ‘Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animals’ sits at the top of the frame.

Enjolras heart-eye reacts, falling asleep with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcannon that R's sister used to sew felt ornaments for her half of the tree in their little competition, and because R knew he didn't stand much chance at out-skilling her in that medium (with her 3+ years of extra experience), he took to baking those ornament biscuits with the melted lolly centres that end up looking like stained glass. Turned out he really enjoyed baking.


	11. Day 10

Monday mornings are a perpetual source of problems for Enjolras, and today is no exception. Despite three alarms he’s still running later than he’d like to be, and it isn’t until he’s scrambled aboard the last possible train capable of getting him to work on time that he remembers the abundance of notifications that had blown up his phone in the night.

Scrolling back up to the photo of him and Grantaire, Enjolras huffs a laugh. It’s even more ridiculous in the daylight - something that is confirmed in the banter below - but he still feels buoyed by the charm of the previous evening. 

That is, right up until he reaches an innocuous addition from Courfeyrac.

**[06:42]** _If you guys are still living together next year you HAVE to make this a tradition!!!_

It seems absurd that two tiny letters could have such a strong impact on him, but Enjolras feels his happy bubble pop at the word. 

_If._

Their lease is good for another six months, but June is a far cry from next December, and anything could happen before then. Something uncomfortable twists in Enjolras’s stomach at the sudden thought of the apartment sans-Grantaire.

He almost misses his stop, probably earning a few glares as he hustles through the crowded compartment to the closing doors. There’s a tightness in his throat that he puts down to the chill in the drizzly air as he leaves the station. 

He knows he’s being ridiculous, he managed fine before moving in with Grantaire, and it’s not like they’re gonna live together forever. It just hadn’t occurred to him how accustomed to the other man’s presence he’s become.

It’s not like they’d go back to how things were before - they’re friends now. Proper ones. Grantaire had said he’s going to teach Enjolras how to cook next year, so even if he does move out they’ll still be spending time together. It’s one of the man’s resolutions.

The realisation lifts his spirits a little more than Enjolras expects, to the point that when he greets the receptionist, his smile - though small - is genuine.

Pulling a notepad from his desk while he waits for his computer to boot up, Enjolras tries to think of his own possible non-activism and non career-driven New Year's Resolutions. The page is still blank in front of him when the contents of his inbox finally load, and he allows himself to be distracted by those until he is called in to a meeting that absolutely could have been an email. 

It’s lunchtime before the empty notepad recatches his eye, and as he heads to the break room he ponders again on what next December might look like for him. The last half-decade has been spent perfecting his work-life balance, and committing to any additional projects is likely to rock that boat. Enjolras is wary of spiralling back to how perpetually exhausted he’d been in university; he likes his routine the way it is.

Opening the fridge, he-

_Oh._

He’d forgotten to grab his leftovers in the haste to make it to the subway on time. As he stares at the empty second shelf it hits him just how much he was relying on the pick-me-up that is Grantaire’s cooking. There’s probably a note taped to the top of the container in the fridge at home, some pun or quick doodle that would lift his spirits just as much as the meal itself. 

Closing the fridge door, Enjolras tries to ignore the tight feeling in his chest as he moves to the kettle, brewing a coffee he absolutely doesn’t need.

The room is almost empty, but he seats himself at the farthest table anyway, pulling his phone from his pocket to discourage any possible conversation-seekers. 

There’s no new message alerts for the group chat, but Grantaire has sent him a link to the drive with all the photos from last night. His chest further constricts as he scrolls through them, and it isn’t until Grantaire’s tinny and cautious “Hello?” sounds from down the line that Enjolras even realises he’s dialled him.

“Hey,” he manages. His free hand is shaking a little too much to pick up his overfull mug, so he settles for lowering his forehead to the cool tabletop in an effort to avoid the accounting manager’s curious glance. He doesn’t make personal calls on work time.

“You don’t make personal calls on work time,” Grantaire informs him, earning a shaky laugh in response.

“I know- I just-” Even as Enjolras scrambles for something to say, he can feel his shoulders untense a touch. A small voice in the back of his head points out that it’s usually Combeferre whom he calls when he gets like this. He can’t bring himself to tug on that particular thread right now. “I left my lunch at home.”

“Big oof.”

“The biggest.” A shaky laugh sounds as his lungs begin to loosen. “And it’s raining. My socks got wet. I don’t think I’ve seen actual sunshine for like two months.”

_I don’t want you to move out._

A commiserating hum sounds from down the line. “Getting to ya?”

Biting his lip, Enjolras nods. “I think so.”

“That’s balls, man.” Somehow Grantaire manages to make his words sound quite sincere. “Being crammed in that office all afternoon probably isn’t going to do you any favours.”

If he wasn’t so tired or hungry Enjolras might protest, but for once taking a personal day sounds kind of ideal.

“Take the rest of the day, Enj. It’s almost Christmas, I have a sneaking suspicion that you’ve got your workload sorted for up til mid-January. They’ll survive without you for one afternoon.”

“Okay." Enjorlas breathes, feeling the vice grip on his lungs ease with the word. "Okay, I'm gonna do that."

“Really?" Grantaire's voice is higher than it had been, and he clears his throat before continuing. "You _are_ having a rough day. I’m just with Bossuet, but I’ll be home soon.”

Enjolras no doubt says something to wrap up the conversation, but it’s purely on autopilot, his mind having snagged on the one word that’s brought a smile to his face since that morning. _Home._

* * *

Twenty-eight minutes later Enjolras is fishing the keys from his jacket pocket as he clears the last flight of stairs when he pauses at a vaguely ominous note taped to his front door.

_‘The weather outside is frightful, but inside is... well. You’ll see.’_

It’s written in Grantaire’s blocky script. Still, he enters the apartment more slowly than he might otherwise have.

The hallway is dark, but he can see that the Christmas lights are on. Calling out as he hangs his jacket on the stand, he gets no verbal response, just a soft tinkling of bells. He toes out of his boots and heads down the hall. The bells sound again as he enters the empty living room, though their direction is hard to place. 

A giant candy cane rests on Enjolras’s side of the couch, and as he nears it he finds another note: _‘It’s dangerous to go alone! Take this. (You’ll need it)’_

“Taire?” he calls out again, glancing towards the man’s open-but-empty bedroom. 

A jingle sounds from the entryway as Enjolras picks up the candy cane, pausing his hesitant investigation when the opening notes of ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ start playing from the kitchen. 

“R?” Changing direction, Enjolras takes a step towards the source of the music. “What are you doing?” 

As the vocals on the recording kick in, a familiar voice sings over them. _“You better watch out. You better watch out. **You better watch out. YOU BETTER WATCH OUT.**”_

_“What the fuck-”_ Enjolras screeches, jolting two feet in the air as Grantaire bursts from the darkened kitchen into the dim light of the living room. The loon is dressed in a full Santa suit and wielding his own oversized candy cane like a fencing sword.

Cackling, the brunet advances towards the couch that now separates them and adopts a far too serious stance for Enjolras’s brain to be able to deal with.

“Come on, Apollo,” baits the too-jolly St Nick. Enjolras can’t put words to a response given the fact his heart has lodged itself in his throat, so he settles for tightening his already white-knuckled grip on the confectionary in his hand. “Surely you of all people wouldn't pass up the chance to take a shot at this darling of consumerism.”

That earns a thin laugh from Enjolras despite the flight response he’s currently experiencing, and at the challenging wink that follows he finds himself rising to his feet, taking a steadying breath, and launching over the couch.

The lunge almost catches his flatmate across his definitely cushion-padded middle, but the brunet parries, eyes ablaze.

“Ho ho _ho!”_ The man aims a slow swipe too-high above Enjolras’s head, but it makes him duck none-the-less. After that, it doesn’t take much for Grantaire to goad Enjolras into a game of chase. Their swordfight moves from living room to kitchen to Grantaire’s bedroom. As their sparring becomes more confident, Enjolras realises that despite the adrenaline rush, he’s having fun.

Eventually the inevitable happens: a sharp block causes a loud ‘crack,’ resulting in more than half of Enjolras’s candy cane breaking away to hit the carpet with a soft ‘thud.’ Moving quickly, Grantaire flips his own stick of peppermint, the hooked end catching around Enjolras’s upper arm and tugging him forward, where - with a quick twist - he finds himself pinned against the cardboard-covered wall. 

“Steady on, Sugarplum,” puffs Grantaire, expression adorably smug.

Enjolras puts up a token struggle, but he knows the battle is lost. “Awfully cocky for someone still in shanking distance.”

Eyes falling on the improvised weapon, Grantaire emits a breathless chuckle before drawing himself up a little and trailing his eyes back to meet Enjolras’s.

“Hey,” he puffs, and Enjolras doesn’t even have to look up. He knows, he just _knows._ “Mistletoe.”

For one breathless moment he’s sure Grantaire is about to kiss him on the lips, but at the last second the man veers left, and a gentle press meets the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. Their noses bump as the brunet pulls away, and Enjolras is suddenly glad to still be pinned by the candy cane, the unexpected exertion of the chase choosing now to make itself known in his legs.

“You’re a menace,” he manages.

“Close.” Grantaire lowers his weapon with a smile. “I’m an ex-fencer.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s cheating,” notes Enjolras, kneeling to pick up the broken peppermint stick, legs still vaguely jelly-like.

“You’re smiling,” the man counters, picking at the plastic on the end of his candy cane. “Seems like a win to me.”

Enjolras's quietly buzzing trepidation about the coming year eases as his flatmate’s grin grows. Whatever happens, he knows that Grantaire will only ever be a phone call away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I wrote the Santa sword fight at the start of this year when I was _hella_ sick and had finally caved and taken some flu medication.  
I then had no recollection of writing it and oh boy was I in for a shock the next time I checked the doc.


	12. Day 11

By some early Christmas miracle, no last-minute pre-holiday dramas arise at work all day; Enjolras’s manager sends him home an hour ahead of schedule, which means he beats the dinner rush at Grantaire’s favourite Thai restaurant.

He’d spent the day in much brighter spirits than the previous morning: Grantaire’s Santa swordfight had seemed an unconventional mood improver at the time, but it had worked. Well, that or the back-to-back viewing of Two Towers and Return of the King that followed it. 

Both is good.

Setting down the canvas bag containing dinner for the night, Enjolras takes a moment to appreciate the addition to his apartment door while he finds his keys. A very familiar wreath circles the golden ‘32’ - adorned with animals and weather emojis and a capital Comic Sans proclamation of ‘SCIENCE!’ - and Enjolras snaps a photo of the foam-shape covered abomination to send to Combeferre in acknowledgment. The reply comes before he’s finished opening the door, and judging from the fact that it is a captionless photograph of himself overseeing Courfeyrac’s losing battle with a glue gun above the wreath now hanging a foot from his face, he assumes his text had been anticipated.

Entering the apartment, he calls out a greeting as he makes his way to the kitchen. Grantaire appears from the living room, eye’s lighting up at the sight of the bag.

“Hungry?” ventures Enjolras, unpacking the food onto the counter as the brunet hops up to sit on his usual section of benchtop.

“For Thai? Always.” There’s a jovial air about the man as he twists to pull two bowls from the cupboard behind him. 

Enjolras finds himself smiling at the thought that he might not be the only one who has had a good day. “How was your shift?” 

“Oh, you’re gonna _die,”_ his flatmate snorts, grin growing as he sits up straighter. “Remember crazy Pete with the sweet potatoes? _Well-”_

It’s captivating, watching Grantaire tell a story. His expressions exaggerate, and his hands never stop moving. It’s captivating and very, very distracting, which is probably why Enjolras doesn’t stop to think about what he’s doing until the man stammers to a halt.

Enjolras frowns, blinking up at the brunet - who is _really_ close – eyebrows high and mouth slack. Something twitches in Enjolras’s palm, and he glances down to see that it’s Grantaire’s knee.

It all catches up with him at once: he’d needed to get to the cutlery drawer currently blocked by his flatmate’s calves. Instead of interrupting the story _like a regular human being,_ Enjolras had apparently opted to ease the man’s knees apart himself.

_“Sorry!”_ he blurts, hands jolting to hover near his ears as a blistering blush races up his neck.

Grantaire blinks, legs still to either side of the open drawer. It’s borderline obscene, and Enjolras almost chokes on his tongue in the rush to distract from _that_ train of thought.

“I needed to spoon-“

A helpless giggle bursts from the brunet as Enjolras begins to feel outnumbered by the betrayal of his hands _and_ mouth.

_“A_ spoon. I needed _a_ spoon.”

“Oh, Apollo.” Fishing a serving spoon out from the drawer, Grantaire holds it up with a devious grin. “If you wanna spoon all you gotta do is ask.”

Pointedly ignoring the somersault his lungs attempt, Enjolras takes the proffered silverware and shuts the drawer. “I’ll just, um.” With only a moment of hesitation, he touches the tips of his fingers to the outer sides of Grantaire’s knees, gently returning them to their original position.

His flatmate is lost to a fit of laughter, and Enjolras wills his blush to die down as he busies himself divvying red curry between the bowls.

“Do-” Whatever Grantaire is struggling to catch his breath to say, Enjolras is almost positive he doesn’t want to hear it. “Do we _kneed_ to talk about it?”

He had been correct. “Shut up and eat your curry,” Enjolras grumbles, though he can’t quite tamp down his embarrassed grin in the face of Grantaire having to wipe tears from his eyes before he can accept his bowl.

“Ooh, gonna tell me to fork off if I don’t?”

Sure that the red of his face is rivalling Santa’s hat, Enjolras allows a rude gesture to do the talking for him as he heads for the living room. He is quickly joined by his flatmate, who manages to stay quiet for two entire mouthfuls of curry before resting his foot up on the edge of the coffee table and turning to Enjolras with a smug smirk.

“Reckon you’ll be able to control yourself in such close proximity to my exquisite turn of knee?”

The prickling of his heated skin is almost ticklish, but Enjolras maintains what he knows is a withering glare as he noisily slurps his third spoonful. Instead of cowering, Grantaire doubles down on his antics, batting his eyelashes and adopting a coy smile. It does nothing to help Enjolras regain his composure, but he knows Grantaire only gets like this when he’s in a really good mood, and that thought makes this torture a touch more bearable. “Enjoying yourself?”

_“Immensely.”_ Grantaire settles further into the couch, seemingly content to have garnered a verbal response. “I haven’t been manhandled like that in _months.”_

Red curry burns in more ways than one as it hits Enjolras’s sinuses, a poorly-timed mouthful causing his snort to have dire consequences. He jolts away from his bowl with a string of obscenities, spoon falling to the floor with a clatter.

Through watering eyes he sees a blurry Grantaire disappear to the kitchen, cackling all the way.

Returning quickly, Grantaire trades Enjolras’s warm bowl for a cool glass and instructs him to drink. The burning abates a touch as he does so, eternally grateful that he’d opted for the medium heat option.

“There’s rice in my nose,” he whines, voice thick, and as he is handed a napkin the realisation hits that he undoubtedly looks like a Hot Mess.

The hand on his shoulder would be significantly more comforting were the man attached to it not definitely failing to suppress his amusement. “I’m going to need you to have an open mind for the solution I’m about to propose.”

Wiping furiously at his leaking nostrils, Enjolras pointedly keeps his eyes closed. “I already don’t like it.” 

Relinquishing his grip on the semi-soothing drink as Grantaire tugs at the glass, Enjolras hears the sound of liquid being poured before gentle fingers guide his hands around a cold bowl.

That gets his eyes open. He blinks through pained tears as the dots connect. “You have to be kidding.”

“I can’t think of an easier way to get milk up your nose.”

If Enjolras’s face wasn’t already patchy and red, it certainly would be by now. “I’m not putting-!”

“Please let me help?” Grantaire cuts him off, hand returning to Enjolras’s shoulder with a squeeze. “I feel bad.”

“It’s not like you did it on purpose,” protests Enjolras. He still feels like he’s just been punched in the face, and the bowl of milk is becoming more appealing by the second, but something is stopping him from committing to such an embarrassing act with this particular audience.

The universe intervenes, Grantaire’s ringtone bursting to life from the kitchen. When the man makes no move to leave, Enjolras nudges him. _“Go.” _

Grin widening, the man’s hand moves from shoulder to back, giving two quick pats as he stands. “What, milk diving not a spectator sport?”

“Haven’t I suffered enough?”

The brunet leaves the room with a bark of laughter, and as soon as he disappears from blurry view Enjolras sighs into a faceful of soothing milky goodness.

Time must pass differently when your olfactory system is blistered, because all too soon his solitude is over.

“Will you be alright if I dash out for a bit?” Grantaire asks upon reentering the room.

Jolting up from the bowl, Enjolras groans as milk races down his neck. Apparently anticipating this, Grantaire hands over a damp dishcloth in exchange for the bowl, keeping his mouth clamped shut. _ Good._

Mopping at his neck and face, Enjolras looks up at the man with puffy eyes and still-pink cheeks. “Everything okay?”

“Mmhmm.” His flatmate’s amusement is poorly concealed. “Joly is covering a night shift, and Boss is struggling with Kaori’s present on his own.”

Memories of a conversation stir. “The doll house?”

“The doll _mansion,”_ Grantaire corrects. It had been Musichetta’s dream to own one as a child, and her partners had been conspiring to surprise her and their six year-old for weeks.

“Why does Barbie even _need_ a mansion?”

The hint of a grin accompanies the raised eyebrow sent his way. “Joly mentioned plans to convert the ground floor into a children’s hospital if Kaori is amenable.”

“Oh.” The cool cloth feels nice as Enjolras presses it back to his still-too-warm nose. “In that case, you better get to it.”

The man hesitates. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Promise.” Little as he wants to admit it, the milk up his nose had helped immensely. “I’ll see you when you get back?”

“‘Course.” Heading down the hallway, Grantaire calls out over the muffled thumps of rifled-through shoes. “Should be about an hour. I’ll know if you watch Bake Off without me!”

* * *

Despite what most people seem to initially assume, Enjolras is a strong supporter of healthy sleep schedules. Bedtime for him has been 10pm sharp for the last half-decade, and his solid eight hours a night has seen him capable of tackling even the craziest of days with minimal struggle. However, 10pm comes and goes, and he’s still curled up on the couch.

The television is on, some space documentary from the eighties that Grantaire would take great delight in correcting if he were home.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

The man had sent a text shortly after leaving to explain that the mansion construction was going to be a bigger task than originally assumed. That was followed by several sporadic updates before a message from Bossuet at 9pm informing him that Grantaire’s battery had died.

Enjolras knows he should go to bed. He should be in bed already. It’s Christmas Eve, he has the party tomorrow, and the last thing he needs is to be an overtired grump for that. It wouldn’t be wild to assume Grantaire might be staying the night at the trio’s apartment to experience the dollhouse reveal firsthand in the morning. For all Enjolras knows, he’s waiting up for nothing.

The clock ticks past 11. Enjolras hasn’t budged.

He’d turned the Christmas lights on when he’d realised his flatmate was going to be late, and as his eyes drift to them now he thinks back to the night they’d appeared and all of the subsequent additions that have since followed.

A twinge of melancholy hits him as he realises tomorrow marks the end of the guessing game. 

The end of _both_ games.

Though maybe the second is already over. It’s 11:27pm, and Grantaire hasn’t kissed him yet.

The fact that this seems to be the leading cause of Enjolras’s sleeplessness has been needling at him since he’d done a cursory fruitless search for where the mistletoe might be hiding almost two hours ago. After the twenty minutes of intense introspection that had followed, he’d stumbled upon the realisation that he might, possibly, probably, definitely have some non-platonic inclinations towards his flatmate.

Casting his mind back, he can’t even properly pinpoint when it started. While he hadn’t recognised it for what it was until tonight, with hindsight he can see traces of it scattered back through the last several weeks. Months even.

A jangle of keys in the hallway brings Enjolras careening back to the present, heart lodging in his throat. He stays frozen on the couch as he hears a coat hit the stand and boots join the shoe pile much more quietly than usual.

Finally, Grantaire appears at the mouth of the hallway looking exactly the same as he had when he’d left, and also somehow completely different. 

The man stops short when he glances at the couch. “You’re still up.”

There’s a lot of things that could be said in response, none of which Enjolras can quite put words to. He settles for a neutral route. “It’s our first Christmas Eve.”

The brunet visibly deflates. “I’m so sorry-”

“No,” Enjolras hurries to correct, “I just, I wanted to see you.” 

_I always want to see you._

A familiar furrow forms between Grantaire’s brows, visible from halfway across the room.

“How’s the doll h- mansion?” enquires Enjolras, not-so-subtly shifting to indicate the vacant cushion beside him.

After a beat, Grantaire moves to it. “In one piece. Finally.” He lifts one leg to seat himself facing Enjolras. The knee incident from earlier that evening feels like a lifetime ago. “How’s your nose?”

“Kinda milky.”

“Gross.” The first smile of the night lights the man’s face, and Enjolras has the conflicting sensation of finally feeling like he can breathe again while simultaneously having the air knocked from his lungs.

“I got you something,” blurts the brunet. “For Christmas. I’m not your secret Santa, I just thought... Do you want it?”

Enjolras feels a trill of elation and relief race up his spine. “Now?”

“Yeah.” Reaching for his backpack, Grantaire starts rifling through the contents of it.

“But it’s not Christmas yet.”

It earns him an amused snort as Grantaire pulls an envelope from the depths of the bag, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

They’re sitting as close as they always have - a distance defined by the parameters of the couch - but Enjolras is suddenly very aware of just how close that is. As eager as he was for Grantaire to get home, he probably could have done with another half hour to try to make sense of his thoughts. “I got you something too.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Ducking his head, the brunet fidgets with the envelope he’s holding. Ten seconds of silence pass between them before Grantaire glances up to meet Enjolras’s flat stare.

“It’s in my room, I’ll be right back.” Standing, he leaves to fetch Grantaire’s present from his sock drawer. Enjolras is quick to return to the living room, his heart beating like he’s just run a mile instead of walking ten metres as he rejoins Grantaire on the couch.

“You first,” Grantaire insists after they’ve exchanged gifts. 

Biting back his polite protest, Enjolras’s intrigue wins out, carefully opening the envelope to reveal a brief letter on official-headed paper.

It’s a meeting time.

It’s a meeting time with _Lamarque._

The same Lamarque that the ABC have been trying to meet with for almost nine months and received nothing but knockbacks.

"How-” Enjolras can feel the excited thrum of energy that accompanies progress buzzing in his brain, thoughts moving faster than his mouth can keep up with. “How did you-?"

"Well,” the man’s satisfied smile makes its way into Enjolras’s whirring consciousness, “you know how I can be really fucking obnoxious?" The continued elaboration fades to background noise as Enjolras’s thoughts grow even louder.

He’d gone to the Lamarque’s office. Every day on his way home from work. For three months.

_For me._

The realisation does nothing to temper Enjolras’s already fragile state of normalcy.

Eyes dropping back to the letter in his hands, Enjolras’s throat feels tight around his “Thank you.” It’s far from enough, but it’s all he can manage.

Grantaire shies away from it anyway, hair falling over his face as his gaze drops to his own envelope, thumb easing open the flap on the back.

A sudden realisation dawns on Enjolras. “Shit, wait.” He scrambles for the gift before Grantaire can see it.

The man leans closer as Enjolras blindly selects a marker from the several scattered across the coffee table. “What are you-”

“Don’t look!” Turning, Enjolras shields the card from Grantaire’s prying view. “I need to- it’s supposed to be for tomorrow, and I just need to add-”

“Really?” The serious tone has Enjolras glancing back over his shoulder at a faux-glaring Grantaire. “Adding? On _Christmas?_ Knowing full well my feelings towards math? Cold Enj. Real cold.”

With a laugh Enjolras returns the contents to the inside of the envelope. Grantaire makes grabby hands, his pout abating as his gift is returned. Flipping it over for a second time, he folds back the already-opened flap, and Enjolras feels his lungs protesting the lack of breathing he’s doing as a card is pulled out.

It’s one from their photoshoot - the cheek-kiss one. Which had seemed like a fun little memento of the mistletoe antics when Enjolras had printed it, but in light of recent feelings-related revelations has his face _burning._

Thankfully, before the brunet can comment on it the actual gifts from inside tumble out into his lap: a collection of passes to nearby galleries, museums, and fun parks that Grantaire had mentioned wanting to visit since moving in.

“Holy fuck,” the man blurts, eyes wide. He selects a few from the top of the pile and looks them over, face pinching. "Enj, these are all family passes." 

“Yeah.” Lungs practically screaming, Enjolras takes a steadying breath. “Two adults, two kids." 

It earns him the side-eye of his life. “Uh, we don’t _have_ kids.” He picks up another pass. “I don’t think Joly and Boss count-”

“Turn the card over,” prompts Enjolras, unable to wait any longer. 

Doing as instructed, Grantaire completely freezes as his eyes land on the photo taped to the back. His half-smile slowly disappears, and he swallows audibly. “Is this-” There’s a crack in the man’s voice, and Enjolras’s heart can barely take it. “Is this real?”

Humming in the affirmative, Enjolras drops his eyes to the picture. It’s easy to pick Amelie as Grantaire’s sister: they share the same dark curls, strong chin, and blue eyes. She’s sat in the centre of the photo, flanked by Grantaire’s two nephews, the three of them holding up an amended sign that reads _‘See you in <s>three</s> four sleeps!’_

“Fuck.” The man beside him clamps a hand to his mouth, and Enjolras politely ignores the tears forming in his eyes. The weeks spent sneakily corresponding with Amelie have well and truly been worth it.

With a steadying breath Grantaire digs his phone from his pocket, frowning at the dark screen before looking at the wall clock. It’s 12:04am. “I should call them,” he says, more to himself than to Enjolras, getting up from the couch and heading for the kitchen. He returns with his charging cable and a quirk to his brow. “And _you_ should go to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

“Big day _today,_ you mean.” Begrudgingly accepting the fact that his flatmate isn’t going to kiss him tonight, Enjolras gets to his feet. He walks the five steps to his room, turning as he reaches the doorway. “Night R. Merry Christmas.”

The man’s face breaks into a blinding smile. “Hey.” 

Enjolras’s cliché heart skips a beat, and in that time the short distance between them has been closed. A firm kiss hits his cheek as the other man’s arms wrap around him. 

“Thank you,” murmurs Grantaire, mouth somewhere near Enjolras’s ear. As he returns the hug, Enjolras feels the man's grip tighten. “Merry Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre's wreath was based heavily on [this,](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2Fbb%2Fd4%2F0f%2Fbbd40f9ba310d9dfc29db91eea5a7d7f.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pinterest.com%2Fpin%2F277886239482576816%2F&docid=-TtjPhqUJ8SmVM&tbnid=VR8O6zbsCZJliM%3A&vet=10ahUKEwi7hcG0_KzmAhXU73MBHXGTD5QQMwhPKAAwAA..i&w=2448&h=3264&bih=996&biw=1524&q=science%20christmas%20wreath&ved=0ahUKEwi7hcG0_KzmAhXU73MBHXGTD5QQMwhPKAAwAA&iact=mrc&uact=8,)  
Enjolras and Courfeyrac made it for him when he got his first teaching job.


	13. Day 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas ya'll :')

Despite being bone-tired Enjolras had struggled to get to sleep, restlessly flipping back and forth on what to do with his new-found feelings revelation. He’s no closer to having made a decision by the time he drags himself out of bed the next morning.

Walking out of his room it becomes abundantly clear that his flatmate has been up for hours. Their living room looks like a spread from _Christmas Party Monthly,_ if that publication did indeed exist. The collection of festive items acquired over the last week-and-a-half have been arranged with the kind of care and precision Grantaire usually reserves for working with inks.

Following the faint familiar tunes floating out of the kitchen, Enjolras finds the man in question wiping down the benchtop in a flour-dusted apron, singing along to some horrifically boppy song about snow falling and carolers singing. 

“Morning,” croaks Enjolras. As his flatmate lifts his gaze to him with a face-splitting smile, Enjolras accepts that his feelings from last night really aren’t going anywhere.

“Morning Sugarplum!” the man beams, flicking the kettle on as he moves to the fridge. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” echoes Enjolras with his own sleepy grin.

The brunet returns to the counter with milk, fetching Enjolras’s favourite mug from the cupboard. “You’re up early.”

Moving forward to help with making his own damn coffee, Enjolras is quickly shooed away. “It’s ten,” he notes, taking a seat on one of the bench stools with a soft scowl. 

“I didn’t expect to see you before noon.”

“It’s Christmas.” The statement has the desired effect of inspiring a wistful sigh from his flatmate, and Enjolras allows the warm feeling evoked by the sound to settle in his lungs without protest. It _is_ Christmas. “I thought I’d help with set up, but I see you’ve been up since dawn?”

“Maybe a touch earlier,” admits Grantaire, passing over the completed coffee. “I saved the best for last, though!”

Returning to the fridge, the man exchanges milk for a large tupperware container, effectively ensuring Enjolras’s interest to be well and truly piqued. 

After a quick drumroll on the plastic lid, the contents are revealed to be an impressive number of gingerbread people. By the time Enjolras has counted the fifteen biscuits, another container has materialised, this one filled with different coloured piping bags.

The proposed task clicks. “You’re gonna decorate the gingerbreads?”

“No.” There’s a glint in the brunet’s eye. _“We’re_ going to decorate the ginger-_Amis.”_ At Enjolras’s blank look, Grantaire elaborates. “There’s one for everyone who’s coming. This one,” he picks up the singular gingerbread encased in a sealed plastic bag, “is Joly - it’s gluten-free. And this one,” he selects the biscuit at least twice the size of the others, “is Gav, because he’s tiny, and I thought it’d be funny.”

Finding his tongue, Enjolras finally manages his question. “You want _me_ to help?”

The brunet’s brow takes on a confused twist. “Yeah, of course.”

“Taire,” Enjolras pleads, “you’ve seen my rally signs. Don’t make me deface one of our friends.”

“Fine,” Grantaire says with a sigh. Enjolras wonders if his flatmate has been expecting this response as he waits for the follow-up. The man rarely gives in so easily. “Do me then.”

Enjolras doesn’t choke on his coffee, but it’s a near thing. Feeling his face turning scarlet, he fumbles for the words _(any_ words) that will move this conversation swiftly past the last phrase uttered.

Before he can restart his protestation, Grantaire hits him with a wide-eyed “Please?” quickly followed by an “It’d be cool if I didn’t have to make my own mini-me.”

Enjolras never stood a chance.

* * *

With the aid of all three cereal boxes from their pantry, Enjolras is able to rig a protective barricade around his section of the workstation to keep Grantaire’s prying eyes out.

Given that he has never so much as touched a piping bag, he elects to watch the brunet decorate a few of the other biscuits first. There’s thick frosting for outlines and runnier icing for filling in sections, and when the baker starts getting fancy with a skewer on ginger-Bahorel’s floral vest Enjolras is pretty sure it’s a hint to quit stalling.

Still too nervous to actually put frosting to biscuit, he opts to practice on a scrap of baking paper, instantly thankful for his decision when red icing comes shooting out much quicker than expected.

Electing to ignore the unsubtle mirth plastered across his Grantaire’s face, Enjolras ices a few wonky shapes before accepting that he really is just stalling. He returns to his side of the bench with a green piping bag in-hand.

It’s stressful. He wants so badly to get this right, and as he chances a glance at the man across from him - hyper-focused on the mechanics of ginger-Joly’s prosthetic leg - Enjolras can’t help but think of what else he might want.

Allowing himself to get lost remembering the pattern on Grantaire’s Christmas sweater, it somehow ends up being not terrible. He swaps green icing for blue, adding the man’s jeans and favoured beanie. It still looks fairly generic, so he takes the skewer that had been offered to him earlier (receiving two silently raised eyebrows as he does so) and uses it to dab splotches of various colours onto the gingerbread’s hands and clothing, which _kind of_ looks like paint. Reaching for the black frosting, Enjolras tries to steady his hand for the necessary detail work, adding the brunet’s stubborn curls around the base of the beanie, and plastering the biggest smile that can fit onto the biscuit’s face.

Stepping back, Enjolras feels a small surge of pride as he takes in his effort. Sure, Grantaire had completed thirteen other designs in the time it had taken him to do one, but ginger-Taire has turned out better than he’d dared to hope.

Nerves making a comeback just in time for the big reveal, Enjolras adds his attempt to the rest of the group, sitting it next to the miniature version of himself - complete with his Resist hoodie and usual red high-tops.

Flashing an excited grin, Grantaire swoops closer to inspect his tiny homage. “You did so good!”

“You think?” The icing is noticeably clunkier than that on the biscuits surrounding it, but Enjolras is trying to keep in mind that he’s not the one who bakes for a living.

“Seriously Enj.” Standing back up from where he’d been leaning over the benchtop, Grantaire puts a hand to Enjolras’s shoulder and sends him the world’s softest smile. “I’m proud of you.”

The mistletoe isn’t above them (he knows, he checked), but as they hold each other’s gaze, Enjolras finds himself wishing that it were.

A chime sounds from between them, and they both blink away. Grantaire’s phone is pulled from his apron pocket, displaying a notification.

“Okay, an hour til go-time,” the man informs. “I’m almost certain the Pontmercys will be arriving early, so if you wanna set these guys,” he passes Enjolras the plate of gingerbread, “on the table and get into costume, I can get the wine on.”

Enjolras makes no move to leave. “You’re _sure_ you wanna be the elf?”

Already plucking spices from the pantry, Grantaire laughs. “Fancy a round of rock-paper-scissors?”

* * *

By the time Enjolras - practically swimming in the fluffy Santa suit - has returned to the kitchen, he finds it empty, which is kind of ideal given the resolution he’s reached.

He occupies his jittery hands with putting away dry dishes, catching the delightful smell of warm spiced wine coming from the slow cooker as he returns his mug to the cupboard above it.

Resting back against the sink, he does one final evaluation of the decision he’s made, and when Grantaire bounds through the door in the almost-too-snug Legolas costume, Enjolras knows he’s made the right one.

“Look at you!” the brunet beams at the sight of the oversized red suit. “You’re more outfit than Enjolras!”

“Careful,” Enjolras warns, pulse picking up pace, “I’m pretty sure I can replace gifts with coal right up til midnight.”

“Physically, maybe,” snorts Grantaire, rolling his shoulders as though daring the seams to split. “But emotionally? Imagine the toll.”

The grin sent his way is equal parts cheeky and fond, and Enjolras is _smitten._ “How’s the wine looking?” he asks, because if he doesn’t he might implode.

“Should be almost ready.” With a glance at the wall clock, Grantaire moves to the slow cooker.

“Smells good,” notes Enjolras, joining his flatmate just in time to be hit by the citrussy cloud of steam released by the raised lid. He swallows. “Can I have some?”

“Sure thing, Santa,” grins Grantaire, eyes flicking to the empty dish rack before he reaches for the cabinet above him.

Enjolras takes a steadying breath, his grip on the counter quickly becoming white-knuckled.

As the cabinet opens, the small length of string attached to the inside of the door is pulled, and Grantaire freezes with his hand half-raised to the shelf of mugs.

“Hey,” squeaks Enjolras. His cheeks no doubt match the rest of his outfit as he stands rigid, unable to look away from his confused flatmate. Not that he needs to, he knows exactly what’s hanging from the open cupboard door now above him. “Mistletoe.” 

“How-?” Grantaire’s baffled gaze drops six inches from the sprig to meet Enjolras’s eyes, and _good Christ_ is Enjolras hoping he’s correctly guessed at the source of that brow furrow. “I put that in the-”

“The hallway? Yeah.” By some Christmas miracle his voice doesn’t tremble. The same cannot be said for the rest of him. “I like it better here.” 

With a careful step forward, Enjolras is close enough. He moves slowly, because if he’s read this wrong Grantaire deserves the opportunity to correct him. The man in question doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, might not actually be breathing as Enjolras shakily rises to his tiptoes and finally finally _finally_ meets Grantaire’s lips with his own.

He hadn’t been conscious of closing his eyes, but as he pulls back they flutter open. Grantaire still hasn’t moved aside from his own eyelids slipping shut, and the twisting in Enjolras’s stomach feels suddenly sharper at the dawning worry that he really has misread the man’s antics from the past fortnight. Month. Half-year. 

As Enjolras returns to flat-soles, he manages to catch the sound of a shaky breath over the hammering of his pulse, and the apology he’d been forming dies in his throat as Grantaire leans forward with _intent._

It feels like a lifetime ago that Enjolras had been debating what a kiss from Grantaire might be like, and suffice to say he had never miscalculated something so poorly in his entire life. 

A delighted hum escapes him as warm lips press against his with purpose. There’s something indefinable about the way the man’s mouth works: Enjolras feels like he’s being somehow pushed and pulled at the same time, and the sensation knocks the air from his chest. His pulse has shifted from its steady, heavy thrum to light, rapid fluttering, which he’d be a little embarrassed to admit if he could get his brain to move away from its steady chant of _‘Christ’_ and _‘yes’_ and _‘finally.’_

A recognisable _swoop_ has Enjolras’s lungs in freefall, made worse (better, so much better) by the hesitant hand moving to pull him in by the front of his Santa suit. His own hands scramble against the too-tight fabric across Grantaire’s chest before he gives up on gripping it, instead opting to wrap his arms up around the taller man’s neck.

The move results in the end of the kiss - Grantaire’s smile becoming too wide to maintain appropriate pressure - but the two remain in shared breathing space.

“I have to ask,” Grantaire says, one of his hands tangling in the loose fabric at Enjolras’s waist. “That wasn’t just… payback? Or because I’m in costume, right-?”

Cutting him off with a kiss, because kissing Grantaire is really very nice, Enjolras almost forgets he’s been asked a question by the time they break apart again. “It definitely wasn’t.” 

“Cool, very cool.” A helplessly breathless laugh escapes him that Enjolras soon joins in with. The hand at his waist shifts, grip slightly firmer, and Grantaire’s gaze drops to Enjolras’s lips for a beat before he’s gently pressing back in. 

It’s softer this time. Slower. Like they’ve got all night. Which, of course, isn’t true, as they’re so rudely reminded when their buzzer sounds from the hallway.

Fighting every instinct in his body, Enjolras pulls back from hint of tongue that had just swept his lower lip, sighing. “We should get that.”

_“Or...”_ a dangerous grin trails against Enjolras’s cheek to whisper low and hot in his ear, “we could pretend we’re not home.”

_“We’re_ hosting the party,” Enjolras reminds him, trying for stern but falling short as his fingers find their way into brunet curls.

“Whose dumb idea was that?” huffs Grantaire with a pout that Enjolras can now admit is really quite adorable.

“You-” A peck cuts him off. “Your-” And another. “Mmm, that’s distracting.” 

“Good,” the brunet beams, rubbing the tip of his nose against Enjolras’s. “I like distracting you.”

He’s never seen Grantaire look this openly happy from this close, and it reminds him that a kiss isn’t all he had been hoping for.

“We’re um. Are- can we-” Clearing his throat, Enjolras tries desperately to stop grinning enough to get the words out. He’d been prepared for his brain to turn to mush if things went well but hadn’t counted on his mouth making it so hard to speak. “We’re gonna talk about this,” he finally manages, tucking a stray curl behind the brunet’s ear and almost losing his train of thought when Grantaire leans into the touch. “Us?” The buzzer sounds again. “Later?” 

“Mmm,” the man hums against Enjolras’s lips as he presses back in. He really is a spectacular kisser. “So much talking.”

The buzzer starts tapping out what sounds like morse code, and the two finally separate, heading together to the front door. Enjolras had never really timed how long the three flights from the ground floor take to clear, but when Grantaire breaks away at the sound of a knock, he decides it’s definitely not long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Grantaire bopping along to ['Underneath the Tree'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1xy34BYxXsw) by Kelly Clarkson at the start of this chapter?  
Yup.
> 
> Was Cosette tapping out 'R U DEAD ?' in morse code through the apartment buzzer?  
Also yup.
> 
> HOME STRETCH FOLKS! Only the Epilogue to go!


	14. Epilogue

It’s not unusual for Feuilly to be the last to arrive at any given gathering, so when he makes it to the third floor location of tonight’s festivities, he’s not surprised to find the small mountain of shoes that belong to his friends practically barricading the unlocked door shut.

Unlacing his boots takes time, but after adding them to the pile he allows himself an extra moment to appreciate the decoration on the door before he closes it: a craft store explosion of a wreath that could only belong to Combeferre. 

The tune that had been muted in the corridor is now recognisable as a Bublé classic, and Feuilly can’t help but laugh as he weaves through the two couples waltzing in the narrow hallway: Marius & Bossuet, and Musichetta & Cosette.

Reaching the living room, a screaming cry of “JENGA!” is all the warning he gets as a collection of not-large but not-exactly-small glitter-covered reindeer tumble into his path. Bahorel and Courfeyrac each catch Feuilly in a welcoming hug before collecting their unconventional game pieces and apparently starting again.

Spotting Jehan at the coffee table, Feuilly moves closer just in time to hear his friend declare themself the gingeriest of the gingerbread, and swiftly snap the head off of the biscuit-person in their hands. It’s far from the strangest greeting he’s ever received from Jehan, so Feuilly adds the brownies he’d brought to the spread on the table and nods a hello.

Continuing on, he almost walks straight into Éponine, who is sending her brother a pointedly raised eyebrow as he pouts from next to a sparsely decorated Christmas tree. Gavroche hangs what appears to be the only bauble in the apartment on a low branch before racing over to join in Reindeer Jenga. 

“How was your shift?” Éponine asks, eyes still trained on her younger sibling. 

“Busily merry.” It wasn’t, but she doesn’t need to know that. “How was Christmas with the kids?”

The question earns a small smile, and Feuilly’s hellish swapped shift is instantly worth it. “‘Busily merry,’” she parrots. He doesn’t expect an audible thanks, nor does he receive one, but the bump to his arm as she makes for the couch is all the gratitude he needs.

Adding his Secret Santa gift to the pile at the base of the tree, Feuilly recognises his star at the top, though from a closer distance he can spot a minor adjustment that had been made to the piece since it left his possession. His bark of laughter catches the attention of Joly, Kaori and Combeferre, who appear to be arranging a loose section of the mass expanse of Christmas lights to resemble Canis Major on a nearby patch of carpet.

“I see you’ve spotted the star,” comments Combeferre, eyes lit up the way they get when he talks in depth about any of his many interests.

“I see you were inspired,” Feuilly replies, nodding to the constellation between them before looking out across the festive room filled with all of his favourite people. “They’ve done well, haven’t they?” With a quick headcount, he realises his tally is two short. “Where are our hosts?”

“Mulling more wine?” Uncertainty tinges Joly’s tone, his hand smoothing his daughter’s hair as she works to untangle a length of lights. “I think? How long ago did they say they were doing that?” He turns to Combeferre, who shrugs, already rearranging the makeshift stars into the beginnings of Orion.

Leaving them to it, Feuilly makes for the kitchen. He laughs as he passes the bookshelf, a collection of decorative candles and a post it note declaring ‘EAT the RICH’ in red, green, and gold.

Reaching the doorway to the kitchen Feuilly spots a sprig of mistletoe hanging from an open overhead cupboard, half a room away from where Santa has Legolas pinned against the pantry door, kissing the elf in a way definitely worthy of making the naughty list.

“Oh _Santa,”_ Feuilly chuckles to himself as he instantly backtracks, turning to the occupants of the living room and raising his voice a touch louder than necessary. “Anyone need anything from the KITCHEN?”

A chorus of ‘no’s call back to him, and he counts to three before heading back through the doorway.

A pink-cheeked grin is visible over Grantaire’s shoulder, the man not pausing in his diligent stirring of the slow cooker’s contents as he calls a greeting. Enjolras echoes it; a blatantly fake white beard obscures most of his face, but his red ears aren’t so easily hidden. The blond is leaning against the sink, reading what looks to be the nutritional information panel on a box of herbal tea and fooling the sum total of absolutely nobody.

Grantaire’s gaze flicks to the flushing St Nick, whose beard slips just enough to show the edge of a wide grin before it is hastily corrected. Feuilly doesn’t comment on how hopelessly unsubtle the two of them are as he adds his ciders to the ice in the sink. 

He had earned his place on the tree star, and he damn well intends to keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I'm a little in shock at getting to type 'chapter 14 of 14' in at the moment. Holy wow.  
Any second now I'm gonna be posting some spectacular commissions I got for this fic on my [tumblr,](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com) so if you've enjoyed reading along please check those out!  
There's [this one by DeboraCabral,](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/post/189861769626/so-way-back-in-july-i-think-deboracabral) and [this one by Boopliette.](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/post/189861771751/the-twelve-days-of-les-amis-mas-exr-rating-g)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone that's been following along as I've been posting! You've made all the nights spent doing last-minute edits much more bearable with all your support! 
> 
> Speaking of support, another gigantic shout-out to [Shitpostingfromthebarricade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade) \- who literally stayed up on the phone with me til 2am during this crazy week leading up to Christmas to smash through all the major edits for the last handful of chapters. I promise if I ever write another holiday fic I'm gonna do it four months in advance!


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